


Lay It Down

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 81,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q agreed: their relationship was nothing more than physical. Until it suddenly isn't. </p><p>(Or alternatively: The one in which Q gets sick, Bond takes care of him, and the truth comes out.)</p><p>2/10/2014: Now available in <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9996371/1/Lay-it-Down">French</a> courtesy of the wonderful <a href="http://bellepimprenelle.tumblr.com/">Belle Pimprenelle!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **EDIT 2/10/2014:** The amazing [Belle Pimprenelle](http://bellepimprenelle.tumblr.com/) has translated this work into French! You can read it [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9996371/1/Lay-it-Down).
> 
> Um, so, I wrote a thing. Not Brit-picked, but thanks to Bwans who checked it out for me and said everything looked good enough to post here. 
> 
> Title comes from Aerosmith's _Lay it Down ___

Q should have seen it coming, but then again, hindsight is always 20/20.

 

The ache had been in his chest for several days. It was nothing serious, just a weight that rested heavily on his sternum that sometimes made breathing a bit more of a chore than usual. He did not think much of it, attributing it to the cold  winter rains and the to-the-bone chill that pervaded MI6’s underground headquarters. Bond thought more of it than he did, that much was certain. One morning, Q woke to find the double-oh watching him, looking for all the world as if he had not slept the entire night. The dark circles under his eyes were deep. They had not been there the night prior, when Bond had returned from his mission to playfully corner him in the shower and shag him senseless.

 

Q wondered if he had nightmares, but didn’t dare ask.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Q asked, turning in Bond’s arm to squint at the clock. When he couldn’t make out the numbers properly, Q reached out and grabbed the device, bringing it closer. 6:41am. He shoved it back onto the nightstand before burrowing further into his pillow. He could sleep for another hour. The arm around his waist pulled him closer, until the other man was a line of warmth against his back.

 

“You’re not breathing right,” came Bond’s answer against his shoulder, his two day old stubble prickly even through Q’s pyjama fabric. “And your body temperature is wrong.” His warm breath came heavy with disapproving accusation, as if it were Q’s fault entirely.

 

Q felt unsure if he should be annoyed or flattered at these observations. It had only been a few months since they started...whatever it was they had. Bond still left for weeks at a time and still had sex with beautiful women while on missions, but whenever he returned to London, he would inevitably end up in Q’s flat, in his bed, in no matter what condition the field had left him. The Quartermaster truly did not mind the company, though he never said anything of the sort out loud, and had even allowed for Bond to keep a few changes of clothes on one side of the wardrobe. It was more for convenience than anything else, or at least that was how Q justified it. Bond seemed just suited with the arrangement, about which they almost never spoke. They did not truly have to, after all, because their personal relations were separate from MI6 and they acted with the same amount of semi-professionalism as they always had.

 

So nothing had truly changed, except for the shagging, which was excellent, by the way. And that’s all it was: shagging. There were no strings attached, none of the complications normal entanglements had. They were adults who had reached a mutually beneficial understanding about what sort of relationship they wanted. It was simple and physical and nothing more.

 

 

Or that was how it was supposed to be.

 

Maybe it started to become something more without them realising it. There were the sort-of small things, like the shared wardrobe and Q keeping Bond’s preferred brand of coffee in his flat and the extra toothbrush near the sink in the bathroom. There were also the middle-of-the-way things, like when Bond would cook breakfast in the mornings and they would watch telly before Q went to work. Then there were the not-so-small things, like when Bond would come over some nights and slip into bed with him, just to hold onto him as if Q were the only thing keeping him in the world. Q did not mind these things; in fact, he liked them a bit too much. But it was a problem when Bond was away, because it was much harder to go to bed by himself and wake up alone, surrounded by small reminders of Bond’s presence in his life. It all but shouted that Q was getting attached when he was not supposed to. Yet, he _liked it_ and that scared him more than he wanted to admit. And maybe he was not the only one getting too close: Bond knew which side of the bed he preferred and how he took his tea and where exactly Q needed a massage after a long day hunched over a keyboard. And apparently, Bond had also memorised Q’s breathing patterns and normal body temperature, immediately aware of any fluctuations or deviations in either. It brought Q back to wondering if he should be annoyed or flattered, but he could not decide.  

 

“Q,” Bond said, in a way that indicated he had called to him several times beforehand. He must have dozed off without noticing. Q had not even realised his eyes had closed. He struggled to open them again.

 

“Hmm,” was Q’s reply. He had a feeling he had been thinking for a while, but the clock stood too far away for him to check the time again. Outside, it was still dark. He could hear rain against the windows. His chest felt heavy. He closed his eyes again.

 

“You should go to Medical,” said Bond.

 

“ _You_ should go to Medical,” Q mumbled childishly into his pillow. He did not have to have his eyes open or be facing Bond to know that the other man wore a smirk at his half-hearted retort.  

 

“You’re lacking your usual rapier wit,” Bond said, sliding his hand under Q’s shirt. His fingers brushed over his skin like cool water. Q shivered despite himself, feeling suddenly chilly.

 

“It’s _early_ ,” Q grumbled, pulling at the duvet in hopes of gaining more warmth. Bond’s fingers pressed gently into his side.

 

“You’re coming down with something.”

 

He sounded...concerned? Q had just enough awareness to hear something like it straining in his voice, clinging onto the consonants. Did Q sound like that when Bond was out on a mission, about to do something stupid that might prevent him from coming home?

 

“I’m fine.” He turned around in Bond’s arm again, putting the clock and the window and the rain to his back. He did not want to think about their rules and how they were breaking them, because he liked having Bond’s things in the wardrobe and the coffee in the kitchen and the toothbrush in the bathroom. And because he liked when Bond made breakfast and when they would watch the news in the mornings. And because he especially liked when Bond would come to bed and hold onto him like he was the only thing that mattered. It was selfish, he knew, but Q liked it. He would take all that he could while he could, their agreement be damned.

 

Q tucked his head under Bond’s chin; he knew how much Bond liked when he did that. The other man slid a hand up his back and threaded his fingers gently through the hair at the base of Q’s scalp. If Q could have purred, he would have. Instead, he nuzzled at Bond’s throat, lips brushing over his warm skin. “It’s nothing... It’s just the weather.”

 

Bond did not say anything, but Q knew that did not mean he believed him. Regardless, his silence and the rain and the fingers in his hair put Q right back to sleep.

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

Bond was informed that he would be shipped out to Spain.  

 

Even though he had just returned from a two week-long mission in Syria and had earned a small reprieve, M had wanted him back out in the field. And Bond was not one to say no to taking down a major player of a long-standing terrorist organisation, especially when Mallory had assigned the mission personally. At least it meant that he did not think Bond ready to be put to pasture just yet.

 

Folder in hand, Bond took the lift down to Q Division to be kitted. When he arrived, he found the main area to be filled with only a handful of employees, who barely glanced up at him when he arrived. Q was neither at the main workstation nor, upon further investigation, in his corner office. It left Bond with no other place to look except R&D.

 

Double-Ohs were rarely seen in Q Division except to pick up their weapons and whatever other gadgets were assigned to them based upon their mission. It was even rarer to find them in R&D, where said weapons and gadgets were designed  before they were issued into the field. Most people wore lab coats in this area and--depending on how far back one went--facial masks and latex gloves. Q once told him that he could neither confirm nor deny the existence of biochemical research labs in the depths of MI6. But the way he said made Bond wonder if he should be fearful of what R&D could cook up down here.

 

He had just passed a glass room of boffins working on what appeared to be some sort of high-tech rocket launcher, when he spotted Q in the corridor up ahead. He had just turned the corner with researcher in a white coat. She spoke quickly, but succinctly, while Q typed things out on the tablet in his hand. When she caught sight of Bond, she promptly stopped and quieted, causing Q to pause in his stride and look up. His gaze moved from her to settle on Bond. If possible, he looked worse than when he had left the flat that morning; there was absolutely no colour to him at all. It took all his training to school his features into something nonchalant.

 

“007,” he said, by way of greeting.

 

“Q,” Bond replied. He held up the folder and Q gave an almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the researcher.

 

“You have my authorization to continue with Project Mondal,” Q said, tapping a few things on the screen of his tablet, "but please stay within budget this time. The Eiago fiasco nearly bankrupted us for the year.” She had the decency to look a little cowed as she pulled her own computer from under her arm and began taking notes.

 

“And Project Cardwell?” she asked hesitantly, after a moment of typing.

 

“Get me more data on its precision and efficiency. If it exceeds the standards set by Boothroyd, I will revisit your proposal in a few weeks,” Q replied.

 

“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice giving away her disappointment more than her expression.

 

“Impress me and you’ll get all the funding you need,” Q said, and her eyebrows went up to her hairline. “I want at least five of those for the Double-Oh Programme.” He looked over at Bond and then went back to his tablet. “Perhaps double that number. 007 never brings anything back in one piece.”  

 

“Occupational hazard,” Bond replied. He saw Q fighting a smile.

 

“Anything else, Miss Hersland?” he asked.

 

“Nothing else, sir,” she said, closing the cover of her tablet. “Thank you.” And with that, she turned and disappeared the way they had come.

 

Q waited until she was out of sight before he let out a sigh and pinched at the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. Bond had seen the gesture a few times, mostly after he had brought back broken equipment, but this one seemed a bit more exhausted than usual. It made Bond want to close the distance between them, maybe rub at Q’s shoulders like he knew the other man enjoyed so much. But they were at work and they had agreed on propriety, so Bond did not act on this impulse.

 

“So am I getting new toys soon?” Bond asked instead, grinning at Q.

 

“Absolutely not,” Q said, dropping his hand from his face. He already looked spent and the day had not even begun, but Bond could tell he made an effort to smile a bit anyway. It was Bond’s favourite: the little one that pulled at his lips when he was amused. “You’re not getting anywhere near new equipment until you bring _something_ back that isn’t broken beyond repair. _Anything_ , 007. Even the bloody earpiece at this point would be an improvement.”

 

For the onlookers, they engaged in their usual bout of banter about equipment and the perils of fieldwork as they left R&D in the direction of Q’s office. Once they were inside, Bond closed the door behind them. He hit the second light switch on the wall, which turned the only window in the office dark. They could still see down into the bullpen, but no one could see them. Bond liked the privacy.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Q said. He kept his back to Bond as he put down his tablet to sift through some folders on his desk.

 

“Think about what?” Bond asked, smiling as he dropped his own folder onto the nearest chair and moved closer to Q. He rested his palms on Q’s shoulders and began rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles along his upper spine. Almost immediately, Q stopped what he was doing and relaxed under his hands. A small, pleased sound escaped him, and Bond did not know whether to classify it as arousing or adorable. Perhaps a bit of both. “I wasn’t thinking about anything but this. What were you thinking about?” He moved to Q’s shoulder blades, massaging with more than just his thumbs now. Q’s head dropped forward and he made that sound again. Bond did not have to see his face to know that his eyes were closed in enjoyment. “Well?”

 

“Nothing at all...” Q sighed out, some of the tension leaving his body as Bond worked out a particularly nasty knot in his right shoulder. “Which is what I’ll be able to accomplish for the rest of the day if you keep doing this.”

 

“Good. Go home. Call it a day,” Bond said, sliding his hands down Q’s back and then around his front, pulling the other man to his chest. He felt smaller than usual in Bond’s arms. A few more meals and a lot less tea would do him a world of good. But Bond didn’t press it, because he knew by now that doing so would only make Q resist. Instead, he buried his nose in Q’s soft, unruly hair. He smelled like that morning’s heavy rain. “You need some sleep.”

 

“I slept perfectly well,” Q replied, leaning his head back to rest on Bond’s shoulder. “You’re the one who needs the rest. You’re off to Spain on barely, if any, sleep. God only knows what sort of destruction you’ll cause.”

 

“I’ll keep it within reason,” Bond answered. He saw the corner of Q’s mouth twitch in a smile.

 

“Liar,” Q said.

 

“I’ll _try_ to keep it within reason,” Bond amended, moving his hand to let his fingers creep up under the hem of Q’s cardigan.

 

“You’re lucky you’re handsome,” Q replied, but swatted at Bond’s hand anyway as he moved away from him. He took up one of the folders on his desk and removed an envelope from inside, which he then gave over to Bond. “Your passport and boarding passes.”

 

“First class?” Bond asked, not opening it.

 

“You’ll be in coach, with the rest of the peasants,” Q said, but he smiled in a way that indicated otherwise. Bond smirked. Q always arranged for Bond to fly first class, even if the mission did not require that sort of cover, and since his methods were most likely not MI6 sanctioned (or legal), Bond enjoyed the special treatment and kept his mouth shut.

 

“So does this mean I’m your favourite?” Bond asked, closing the space between them. Q moved back a bit onto his desk, but did not push Bond away when he moved his hands up his thighs.

 

“I don’t play favourites,” Q said. His expression remained neutral even as Bond’s palms moved higher.

 

“Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He clutched at Q’s narrow hips with the tips of his fingers as he leaned forward. Almost simultaneously, Q tilted his head back, exposing more of his pale throat. It was a blatant challenge. Bond loved Q’s neck, but knew he could not leave marks, which was half the fun.

 

“It would be unprofessional to have favourites,” Q replied, looking down at Bond beneath his lashes. He was tempting and he knew it. If it were not for a pressing flight and the fact that Q looked so tired, Bond might have pushed him down on the desk and had his way with him. Twice.

 

“Thankfully we’re both professionals here,” Bond said, unable to resist just a few more moments of indulgence. His fingers loosened Q’s tie with an expert tug, then made quick work of the top two buttons. Then Bond brought his lips to that place just under Q’s jaw that he liked the most, breathing in the scent of Q’s aftershave and heated skin as he pressed open mouthed kisses there.

 

“Thankfully,” Q repeated; his subsequent breath hitched when Bond scraped his teeth over his Adam’s apple. The sound went right to Bond’s cock. Self-control be damned. He coaxed Q to lie back on the desk, taking full advantage of that position to begin deftly unbuttoning his dreadful cardigan. He kissed at Q’s throat again, letting his lips linger over the pulse there. Then he swept his tongue over that point, leaving a wet stripe upon hot skin. Q’s hands came up to grip at his shoulders, but still, he did not push Bond away. “You are a very bad man,” Q murmured, voice low, as Bond finished the last button and then proceeded to pull up the shirt he had tucked into his trousers.

 

“I never claimed to be a good one,” Bond replied, devil-may-care smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, which he promptly put back to work, kissing down the column of Q’s bared throat. He could not resist biting at Q’s collarbone. Fingers gripped at Bond’s short hair in a silent reprimand, but the way Q’s body arched against Bond’s mouth encouraged him to continue. A moment later, he had a nice, raised mark on Q’s right clavicle. “You’re not a saint either,” Bond said, licking at the bruise, which made Q tremble under him. Knowing that Q would have it for some of the duration of Bond’s deployment gave him a feeling of deep-seated satisfaction. Q would see the mark every day upon dressing and undressing and think of him. And though it could be hidden easily under his shirt, if anyone saw it, they would know Q belonged to someone. The thought was nothing short of intoxicating.

 

“Never claimed to be one,” Q answered, shifting his left leg beneath Bond. It brushed against Bond in just the right place and in just the right way to create a deliciously electrifying burst of pleasure.

 

“Good. I wouldn’t want you any other way,” Bond said, biting again at Q’s clavicle as his hands slid up under the Oxford determinedly. Beneath him, Q’s body responded immediately and Bond began to think that it would be well worth it to catch a later flight, but then he took pause. He stopped halfway along Q’s abdomen, fingers splayed over raised protrusions of his ribs. The skin under his palms burned a degree too high to be pleasurable. It was much like the night prior, when Bond had awoken after only an hour of sleep to Q’s overheated body pressed against his. Concern crushed his arousal faster than if someone had overturned a bucket of ice water over his head.

 

“James?”

 

Q had propped himself up on his elbows to look at Bond questioningly. Although normally he would like Q in such a debauched state--pupils wide, shirt half-open, a love bite darkening on his collarbone--Bond could now only see the indications of illness clinging to him. It chased away all want to bed Q, replaced by an overwhelmingly desperate need to _care_ for him. That want should have terrified Bond, but with Q, it strangely did not feel as unsettling as he thought. It came easy and felt _right_ and Bond found himself willingly sinking into it rather than pulling away.

 

When he entered into this thing with Q, they had agreed: it would be purely physical. Most of the time, that meant sex, but some of the time, it just meant a warm body to lay next to at night. Regardless, it did not mean getting entangled past a certain point, and Bond was already far past that. He knew it weeks ago, when he had stopped slipping out of bed during the early hours of the morning to return to his flat, all so that he could wake up and spend quiet mornings with a sleep-tousled Q under his arm. He knew it when he found that he enjoyed making breakfast for two instead of one and felt the satisfaction of making sure Q had at least one square meal in him a day. He knew it when he would wake in a strange hotel room half-way around the world and wish that Q was there beside him. He knew all of these things, and yet, they did not frighten him. In fact, Bond enjoyed them more than he would ever say.

 

“James?” Q said again, palm sliding up along Bond’s arm. His touch brought Bond back to himself.

 

“You’re warm,” Bond said. He still had not moved his hands from Q’s middle, where the flesh felt nothing short of feverish.

 

“That is usually what happens when the body is stimulated,” Q replied. An amused smile danced on his lips. It faltered when Bond retracted his hands and began to pull Q’s shirt back into place. Q sat up a little more, preventing Bond from tucking the tails into his trousers. “You’re really going to pass up the opportunity to shag me on my own desk?” Q asked incredulously. “Who are you and what have you done with James Bond?”

 

“You have a fever,” Bond said by way of explanation. Although shagging Q on his desk was high up on his list of fantasies, he would not allow himself to act on his desires while Q was ill.

 

“This again?” Q asked with a weary-sounding sigh. He pushed himself up all the way to sit up straight, swatting Bond’s hands away from him again. “It’s nothing to worry about. I told you. It’s just the weather. I’m _fine_.” Bond watched as Q did up the buttons of his shirt, hiding the mark from view, and then tied his tie back into place. He wanted to do it, but knew that Q would not let him. Although he was not angry--not yet--Bond could detect an emotion in Q’s stiff motions that fell somewhere between irritation and embarrassment. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, you do have a plane to catch.”

 

He obviously did not want to talk any more about it, but Bond was not one to stop beating a dead horse.

 

“Q,” he began, but the other man silenced him with a single look as he slid off the edge of the desk to stand. Q was almost tall enough to be at eye level with him. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his green eyes shone fever-bright. Bond wanted to lay him down on the couch nestled in the far corner of the office and hold him until he fell asleep. Instead, he brought both hands up to rest on Q’s narrow shoulders, then upwards a bit more, so that his palms rested on either side of Q’s neck. His fingers tangled into dark hair as they moved to cradle the back of Q’s skull. The tension eased from Q’s body in the hold, his eyelashes fluttering as his lids closed. The pulse in his neck beat calmly with no trace of fear or apprehension. It was at odds with how normal people would react when a double-oh had their hands practically wrapped around their throat. But Q was not a normal person and Bond could have kissed him senseless for it if it were not for the pressing situation. “I’m just... worried about you.”

 

The tension returned to Q’s body before he even opened his eyes. Bond felt the sharp jump in his pulse against his palm.

 

“Stop,” Q said firmly, but made no move to try and release himself from Bond’s hold. He glared levelly at Bond, who returned his stare without flinching. “Stop all of this, James. We agreed.”

 

“On what?”

 

“On not doing this.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“You know what.”

 

Bond did, but wanted him to say it. Q pointedly turned his eyes away, his gaze focused and unseeing at Bond’s right shoulder.

 

“Getting emotionally attached,” Q said finally. “You don’t want it.” He paused a bit too long before he added: “ _I_ don’t want it.” His next breath came sharply, as if it hurt. Maybe it did. “We _agreed_.”

 

“We did,” Bond replied, moving his thumbs to gently sweep along the underside of Q’s jaw, then chin. If Bond knew anything after their few months together, it was that Q was a very responsive lover. The subtle pressure against his skin served as all the encouragement Q needed to tilt his head back to look up at Bond again. “But this isn’t breaking any of the rules.”

 

Q gave him a dubious look that almost made Bond laugh, but he held it back.

 

“We aren’t,” Bond said. “I’m not asking you to be exclusive. We’re not dating and we’re certainly not going to get married and move out to the countryside together after we retire.” Q made a disgusted face at the mention of such hateful things as _marriage_ and _the countryside_. Bond actually did chuckle, conjuring a mental image of Q roaming along a desolate Scottish moor with his laptop in an attempt to find a decent wireless network. “Neither of us is looking for something that serious. You’re busy running the department and I’m--”

 

“Too busy breaking all my equipment and constantly creating paperwork for me?” Q finished for him. Bond fought a cocky grin and opted instead for a charming smile.

 

“All because I care about you?” Bond said unconvincingly.

 

“Mmhmm,” was Q’s noncommittal response.

 

“Anyway...what I’m saying is, there’s nothing in our agreement that says I can’t be concerned about your health,” Bond said. Q closed his eyes as he let out a long-suffering sigh. “You worry about me all the time,” Bond pointed out, before Q could think of something else to say.

 

“Yes, but that’s my job,” Q replied.

 

“Just your job?” Bond asked, raising an eyebrow. Q cracked open one eye to regard him.

 

“If you weren’t so reckless, it wouldn’t have to be my job,” Q said, and there was a trace of a smile in his voice.

 

“You’re just grumpy because you’re sick,” Bond said, only to be met with the full force of Q’s glare.

 

“I’m _not_ grumpy,” Q growled, offended.

 

“Ah, but you admit that you’re sick, then.”

 

“James Bond, so help me, I will send you into the field with only thumbtacks and a yo-yo.”

 

Q’s sore look was nothing short of adorable. James laughed in a good-natured manner and kissed his brow.

 

“Fine, don’t admit anything,” Bond said, pulling back to look at Q seriously. “But promise me that, if you don’t go to Medical, you’ll at least take it easy.” Q regarded him for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he replied. It was not a yes or a no, but it was the best answer Bond would get for now.

 

He pulled Q into his arms and held him against his chest for a moment. At first, Bond thought he might hesitate, but Q’s arms came round him almost immediately. Despite what people might think of Q--his coldness, his stoicism--he craved touch as much as the next person, perhaps even more. When offered, Q accepted as though starved for it, which, in a way, he had been. Although Bond had been back for two days, because of his debriefing and Q’s work schedule, they had only gotten about ten hours after being separated for over a fortnight. Half of that time had been spent physically engaged, their hungry desperation fueled by a basic need for reassurance and release; the other half they spent sleeping. Now, feeling Q against him, thinner than before Bond had left and warm with fever, instantly filled him with regret. He should have noticed earlier, should have taken care of him, made him rest.  But there was no time for that, now that Bond had only a few minutes before he had to walk out the door again. He fought down the overwhelming desire to _stay_. Work came first, they both knew that, both agreed, but that did not make it any easier to leave.

 

“Good,” Bond said eventually, once he could speak without giving away his thoughts. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

 

“If you ever leave,” Q said, poking him in the side playfully.

 

“Are you kicking me out?” Bond asked, releasing Q with an expression of mock hurt.

 

“Absolutely,” Q said, pulling back from Bond. He picked up the discarded folders with Bond’s mission assignment and papers, holding it out to him with nothing short of the highest professionalism. “You’ll need these.”

 

“My Walther?” Bond asked, taking the folders, "and earpiece?”

 

“Thumbtacks and a yo-yo, remember?” Q replied, and Bond considered calling him out for being cheeky, but did not, and grinned boyishly instead. Q rolled his eyes, stoicism depleted, and pulled open his desk drawer to retrieve a gun case, which he then passed over to Bond. He did not ask that it be returned in one piece.

 

“Where’s my usual lecture to play nice with my toys?” Bond asked.

 

“Why should I even bother? You don’t listen anyway,” Q said, coming forward to straighten Bond’s tie and the top button of his jacket. Even though the words came out scolding, it was with nothing but affection.

 

“You wound me. I always listen to my Quartermaster,” Bond replied.

 

“ _That_ will be quite a day,” Q said, stepping back from Bond to see him off in a much more formal manner. They almost never embraced or kissed farewell; that was for the privacy of their own bedroom, not the office. That was another part of their agreement, but a much more silent one: that they would never have that kind of goodbye. In their line of work, it just did not bode well. “Report at 2200 CET.”

 

“It’s a date,” Bond said with a wink, as he made his way out the door.

 

“Try not to die, 007,” Q called after him.

 

“No promises.”   

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

After Bond left, Q did not have much time to think about their conversation and its possible repercussions. Immediately, he met with Tanner for their hastily scheduled meeting they had agreed to earlier that morning. Eve joined them and took very professional notes the entire time, not saying a word until the very end of their hour-long session, when she stopped to ask Q if he was feeling well.

 

“You’re looking peaky,” she said, after Tanner was out the door.

 

“I’m alright,” Q assured her. She had become a sort of friend after Skyfall, and even more so in the past few months. In an organisation made up of spies, Q found her to be one of the most trustworthy...and the most observant. She knew about Q and Bond perhaps even before they did.

 

“If it’s Bond, I can hurt him for you,” Eve offered. “These are not just for walking, if you know what I mean.” She gestured at the severe points of her heels and Q could not tell right away if it was in jest or in complete seriousness.

 

“As lovely as that mental image is, I assure you, I’m fine,” Q said, and he managed to smile at her. “I’m just a bit tired.”

 

“Bond keeping you up at night?” she asked, and her smile turned sly. Q prided himself on absolutely not blushing.

 

“Something like that,” he mumbled, rubbing at his shoulder where Bond’s mark ached pleasantly when he pressed his thumb against it.

 

“Lunch?” she asked, and Q checked his watch. He had only about thirty minutes before his next appointment and Eve’s lunchtime excursions were never short affairs.

 

“Already ate,” he lied, making for the door. “Rain check?”

 

“Absolutely,” Eve said. “Take care of yourself, Q.”

 

He nodded and retreated from the room, heading downstairs. On his way to the canteen to grab something small and fast for lunch, he received an email that indicated his next meeting had been rescheduled to start in five minutes. Q turned right back around and took the lift up to the floor he had been on previously and entered the appropriate conference room. The budgetary meeting lasted far too long and was then followed by two back-to-back official research proposals with the R&D board that stretched into the early evening. The only moment he had to think about Bond was when his mobile pinged with an automated alert that confirmed his flight to Valencia had arrived seven minutes late, but safely.

 

After the proposals, Q met with one of his senior staff members to discuss the benefits of utilizing a new algorithm for improving the GIS they used primarily for the Double-Oh Programme and other forms of monitoring international activity for national security. Although Q could usually talk backwards and forwards about computational geometry, he found himself struggling slightly to keep up a fluid conversation. He blamed it on the headache that had been sitting behind his right eye since the budgetary meeting.

 

By the time he made it back to his office, it was 1730 and the day staff in Q Division were packing up their things to go home while the smaller night shift shuffled in. Q then proceeded to take two too many Panadol for his headache, choking them down with the last dregs of his cold and terribly bitter Earl Grey. The aftertaste made him cough, which hurt both his head and chest more than he wanted to admit. He cursed his weak lungs; this always happened when the weather turned colder. Bond had been right about his coming down with something, but damn if Q would say it aloud.

 

It made him take pause. For the first time in several hours, Q thought about Bond for more than just a fleeting second.

 

It hit him suddenly: they had engaged a semi-serious conversation about That Thing Which They Never Talked About. Q realised then that he had brought up the one thing he had not wanted to bring up, which was the complicated bit as to what fell within and outside of their arrangement. He felt like a hypocrite, accusing Bond of being overly attached. If anything, Q was the one violating their agreement. He selfishly enjoyed being the only one Bond returned home to, for more than just sex, after every mission. He liked being the person who knew just how hot and sweet Bond took his coffee in the mornings, just as much as he liked knowing what brand of toothpaste he preferred. He liked the arm around him at night and the still-warm sheets in the morning and the way Bond would sometimes kiss his eyelids very softly when trying to encourage Q to fall asleep. He liked all of these things that should have terrified him, _did_ terrify him on some level. After all, Q did not do commitment, and neither did Bond. That was the whole point. But, for a moment, Q found himself traitorously thinking it might not be so bad...

 

“Sir?”

 

A voice cut through his thoughts, giving Q a start. He did not think he had zoned out quite so badly, but his computer monitors sat dark in front of him in hibernation. His watch said it was nearly 1800. A hesitant night-shifter stood in the half-open doorway to his office. He carried with him a stack of folders nearly up to his chin. Q could not remember his name, but knew that he was quite skilled in numerical analysis, which was all Q truly needed to know.

 

“I take it those are for me,” Q said, not asked, as he took in the impressive girth of the files with an expression of long-practiced indifference. Internally, he was screaming. When would MI6 learn the value of doing things electronically?  He already had enough clutter to deal with concerning current projects, let alone the backlog of paperwork that needed official read-through and sign-off for auditory purposes. On the last batch, M had already told him he could not get away with having someone stamp the sheets for him, and even requested that Q make a database with all the old information to then sync with the new spreadsheets Q Division analysts had created. As if Q did not have enough to do, M wanted to add mind-numbing data entry to his never-ending list of responsibilities.

 

The headache flared up with new force as he asked the man to put them down on the corner of his desk. After he left, Q leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, taking particular care with the right that had been aching all day. Although his job had its perks, this was not one of them. Q considered going behind M’s back to steal an intern from HR or something to work on the backlog. But one glance at the letter enclosed at the top of the stack and Q found himself grumbling: only someone with the highest security clearance could look through them. Level One also meant they could not leave the premises, so he would be unable to work on them at home. On top of that, he had until the end of the week to finish everything.

 

He would need a lot more tea.

 

Choosing to do that first, Q left his desk and took up his cup. He went down to the break room nestled between Technical Services and R&D. There, he waited what seemed like an obscenely long time for water to boil before finally stealing back to his office with a hot cuppa. Once seated at his desk, Q did not have time to enjoy anything but the first sip, already launching into his next task. Bond would be calling at 2200 CET which meant 2100 London time, giving Q only a few hours to work on the raw intel he had been virtually gathering all day using a new sweeper program.

 

Their target was Alesander Velasco, a Basque national who left Spain for France six years prior to marry a French national. He held dual citizenship in both countries and worked for an import-export firm in Paris. He spoke five languages, held a degree from Paris-Sorbonne University, and owned two Bichon Frise purebreds. On paper, Velasco appeared as clean and successful as they came. But in reality, he was a high-ranking member of the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna terrorist organization, which had been violently fighting for Basque independence since the late 1960s. The ETA engaged in everything from arms trafficking to extortion and had routinely bombed populated areas in the Basque country as well as Spain’s capital, Madrid. They were responsible for over 800 deaths, approximately 350 of which were civilian casualties, and declared a terrorist organization by Great Britain, America, and most members of the European Union.

 

Although the ETA had called a ceasefire in 2010 and had adhered to it so far, Velasco and other radical members of the Nationalist Left did not seem to want to lay down their arms without guarantee of independence. Spain was not helping the matter, its government officials still weighing the heavy options of granting independence versus reigniting the terrorist attacks on their most populous autonomous communities. Velasco was taking advantage of the situation and his high position in the import-export business allowed him to move virtually whatever he wanted from anywhere to the Basque Country. He did not want a ceasefire; he wanted a war. And there were plenty of people interested in following him.

 

Which is why Bond was there to put an end to things before they escalated.

 

Spain had been rid of the ETA’s random bombings and other acts of terrorism for almost two years. The country agreed to full cooperation with Great Britain to prevent further turmoil, allowing MI6 legal access to its security feeds. It had taken one month to identify Velasco as the lynchpin and then another to document his schedule and acquire a list of known associates. Surveillance indicated his return to Spain, but he had deviated from his normal stopovers in Bilbao and Barcelona and opted instead for Valencia. Q had not been able to figure out why just yet, but he had a few ideas, everything from simple presumptions such as port access to the possibility that Velasco was looking to do business with other nationalist terrorist groups from Northern Africa.

 

Rubbing at his aching head, Q pulled up the video feed for the past thirty-six hours at the Westin Valencia, where Velasco had checked in with his wife (trailed by four conspicuous body guards) for a five day stay two nights before. Q had already manually gone through the first 12 hours and found nothing of significance. Further investigation showed Velasco rarely left the hotel. He ordered room service or ate at the hotel restaurant. He drank only the most expensive wine at the hotel’s many bars. The majority of his days were spent poolside with his wife. The longest Velasco had been away from the Westin was for a three hour boat tour and scuba diving excursion along the coast. Q had live video, photographs, and receipts to prove it. It seemed that Velasco was just on vacation, but Q knew that was not the case. There had to be a reason for it, and he would find out.

 

He hacked into the Westin’s computer system easily and looked up credit card transactions, incoming and outgoing mail, messages, phone calls, the laundry service, rental car information, and all dining reservations and other appointments. He left the figures and dates up on one monitor before going back to the CCTV footage on the other.

 

He took pause for only a moment to have a sip of now-cold tea before returning to the video. Going back to about 1600, Q monitored the front entrance camera to watch Bond enter the hotel. It was with a twinge of jealousy that Q noticed several women turn their heads to look at him, and he returned their interest with a small, yet seductive smile. As someone who had been on the receiving end of that same smile, Q knew just what it could do to the knees. He bitterly choked down the rest of his tea to not think about it. They were not exclusive; Bond could do whatever he wanted.

 

Which is why he felt a bit of heat creep into his face when, after checking in and getting into the elevator, Bond turned his head slightly to look at the overhead security camera and winked, as if knowing Q would be watching.

 

“You _will_ be the death of me,” Q muttered to himself, looking away from the screen. He slid on his Bluetooth headset and picked up his Scrabble mug, intent on getting another cup of tea. The break room was mercifully empty, allowing no one to judge just how much sugar Q dumped in his cup. He felt nothing but regret at having hacked his personal electric kettle for parts, forcing him to utilize the one in the break room more often than he would have liked. On his never-ending mental list of things to do, Q added _buy a new kettle_.

 

On the way back to his office, Q fell prey to an ambush by two techs, who were in need of his signature and verbal authorization to switch over to evening protocol. The new M was proving to be a stickler for following all audit processes, which only served to increase Q’s work tenfold. Right as Q started to imagine ways to implement some creative form of revenge that would not get him sacked or thrown in gaol, his headset beeped, indicating an incoming call.

 

“This is Q,” he said, before taking a sip of his tea.

 

“Hello, _darling_ , how are you?”

 

Bond’s charming voice came through as a purr in his right ear. Q was very proud of himself for not spitting his tea back into his cup.

 

“It’s been absolutely _wonderful_ having you gone, _dear_. You won’t believe the amount of work I actually accomplished today,” Q replied, glad he was not within earshot of his staff so that he did not have to fear sending someone into a conniption at his words.

 

“I miss you, too,” Bond said, and then sighed a bit dramatically. “But you know how it is with work.”

 

“Oh, yes, you do have it so rough. How was your first-class flight? And the newest model Audi that I had waiting for you at the rental car pickup?” Q asked, stepping into his office and around the corner of his cluttered desk. “You better not have put a scratch on it or it’ll come out of your paycheque.”

 

“I’ll do my best to be home in a few days,” Bond said, ignoring his warnings. “And how are the children?”

 

“Oh, so I’m the stay-at-home wife?” Q asked, waking his computers from hibernation. “What if I want to feel fulfilled and take a job?” He took another sip of his tea as he searched the hotel for his agent. It took only one guess and two different cameras before he found the right angle. Bond sat at the bar with his Bluetooth headset and a tumbler of whiskey. He looked like all the other travelling businessmen in the place. Two empty seats down from him, Velasco sat alone. When Q went back about ten minutes, he noted that Velasco had been with his wife, who appeared disinterested in talking with him. Right about the time Bond made his phone call was when she left the bar.

 

“When is Gertrude’s recital?” Bond inquired.

 

“Gertrude is a terrible name for a girl,” Q replied, switching one feed to watch the footage of Velasco’s wife. She went into the suite. The alert that Q had put down in the hotel’s computer for Velasco’s room lit up when she phoned for room service.

 

“Tell her I’ll be there,” Bond said.

 

“What an excellent father,” Q replied, using the cameras to sweep for the four faces he had identified as Velasco’s bodyguards. Only two were in the bar with him, at the far end, pretending to watch a football game.

 

“How was Elijah’s rugby practice?” Bond asked.

 

“You _would_ make your male progeny engage in some sort of violent sport, wouldn’t you?” Q inquired. “What if he wanted to be a theatre actor?” Velasco started typing angrily on his phone. Q used that opportunity and his link to Bond’s connected mobile to intercept a copy of his SMS message, which he translated from Spanish. It said: _130 at the pool. Be discreet._

 

“I’ll talk to him when I get home,” Bond said.

 

“See that you do. He most certainly gets his stubbornness from you,” Q replied. Velasco finished his drink and paid his tab. As he left, his two henchmen stood up and left as well. Q monitored the cameras, following him through the hallways until he came into the lounge reserved for the highest paying guests. There were no hotel cameras inside and Q frowned for a moment, but then managed to get a grainy picture from another CCTV inside, most likely as security in case of any incident. Q noted that Velasco went in and sat alone; his bodyguards took seats in a lounge area just outside the main doors.

 

“Like I said, dear, a few more days, then I’ll be home,” Bond said, waving the bartender over to settle his bill.

 

“So not only am I the stay-at-home wife, I’m a nag, too?” Q asked, searching the hotel for the remaining two bodyguards.

 

“You’re not a nag,” said Bond. Even with the lower-quality cameras, Q saw the bartender give Bond a sympathetic sort of look. Q shook his head and remained silent, drinking his rapidly cooling tea as he watched Bond get up from the bar and make his way towards the lifts. “Darling, I’ve got to run. I’ll ring you in the morning,” Bond said, just as he made the motion of ringing off in the monitor. The connection, however, had not been severed. Q took the opportunity to fill Bond in on the data surveillance provided, giving his agent integral hotel room numbers, dates, names, and times. He told him exactly where Velasco and his wife were at that moment, as well as what he had on the two bodyguards. It was nice to not have him interrupt.

 

“Connect from your laptop in the room; you’ll be able to find all of this on the secure server,” Q told him, watching as Bond exited the lift and walked down a long, carpeted hallway to his room. Once Bond was inside, he did not immediately begin talking. Q could hear rustling on the other end, indicating Bond had begun his search for bugs. There had been no activity in Bond’s room all day, not even a maid, but it was good to check anyway. “I’m going to trace the number Velasco messaged,” Q informed Bond.

 

Five minutes later, he spoke.

 

“Anything?” he asked.

 

“It’s a burner phone,” Q replied, typing out a string of coded commands. “Based on what I can get off the towers, I’ve narrowed it down to someone in a two kilometre range.”  

 

“That’s not very helpful,” Bond said.

 

“Yes, I’m aware,” Q replied.

 

“What was the message?” Bond asked, and Q told him. The agent sighed. “So much for an early night.”

 

“You? Have an early night? Excuse me, I think I’m going to have a fit,” Q said dryly, and Bond chuckled on the other end of the comm.

 

“Long day,” Bond said.

 

“Oh? And what, pray tell, did you do today?”

 

“Drove the Audi around for a bit. Went for a swim in the pool. Had a few drinks at the bar...”

 

“Sometimes I envy your job.”

 

A soft thump came from the other end of the line. It sounded as if Bond just fell back onto the bed. At 400 quid a night, Q could only imagine what the mattress felt like. His body ached with jealousy.

 

“What have you been doing all day?” Bond asked. Q heard the sound of his laptop booting up.

 

“Much more work than you,” Q said, and then added: “Don’t put your laptop on the bed. It will overheat and I am _not_ authorising you a new one.”

 

“Tetchy,” Bond said.

 

“You would be, too, if you were here. While you were out playing today, I’ve been drowning in a sea of paperwork. I can’t even see my desk anymore. For God’s sake, why can’t everything just be done via email? It would only make life so much easier,” Q ranted, and it was only after all the words came out that he realised he had been whinging. Bond must have noticed, but he did not say a word. Despite this, Q could almost hear him smirking on the other end of the line. “007, so help me if you find this entertaining.”

 

“No, not at all,” he said, and Q could tell he was lying. He grumbled to himself as he finished up the last bit of his tea. The undissolved sugar irritated his throat and Q coughed, wincing when it pulled from deep in his chest.

 

“Q?”

 

He muted his headset and coughed until he felt dizzy. The cough rattled his lungs, but at least it cleared up his throat. After that, it took him almost a full minute to recover and be able to draw breath without his entire body hurting. The cough was getting deeper, settling further down in his chest, wet and heavy. Q could not deny the fact that he was sick, but resolutely told himself that he would not let it interfere with work.

 

Not now.

 

“Q?” Bond said again. Q wiped at the wet corners of his eyes before connecting back with him.

 

“Still with you,” Q replied, pleased that his voice did not give out.

 

“You’re alright?” Bond asked.

 

“Of course,” Q said. “My tea was too hot.” He pulled up the secure MI6 server and looked for Bond’s computer. It was not registered. “Why haven’t you logged in yet?”

 

“Too busy wondering if my Quartermaster was going to cough up a lung.” Bond replied, and Q could detect that undercurrent of worry again. Q had to stop Bond before he veered off course. If he was distracted during the mission, that could be the difference between life and death. “Are you sure you’re--”

 

“Please focus on the task at hand, 007,” Q said, in a no-nonsense tone. “Login to the server.” Bond did as he was asked and remained coolly professional as Q talked him through the last few things he would need to know about Velasco. It was not very much, but by the end of it, Q’s voice felt hoarse. He blamed it on the coughing fit from earlier.

 

“Q,” Bond said, after he had logged out of the mini-briefing report Q sent his way. “You weren’t coughing when I left.”

 

“I told you, it was the tea,” Q replied, not wanting to have this conversation. It had gotten late and he still had a heap of paperwork to process. His headache started creeping back and Q wondered how many more Panadol he could take without permanently damaging something important.

 

“No it wasn’t,” Bond said.

 

“You sound so sure of yourself,” Q replied, pulling up his email. 1209 unread messages waited for him, almost all labelled **important**. He suppressed a groan. At this rate, he would be there all night.

 

“I am,” Bond said. “You’ve been sitting at your desk this entire time. I could hear you typing. Your tea would have gone cold by now. The only kettle is in the break room because you stripped the one in your office two weeks ago for parts. You told me about it when I was in Syria.”

 

Q paused a beat too long before replying:

 

“I got a new one.”

 

“No you didn’t.”

 

He closed his eyes and rubbed at them beneath his glasses. He debated on another lie, wondering if Bond would believe that one of the staff brought it up to him, but did not bother.

 

“Fine, I didn’t,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Go home,” Bond told him firmly. “You’ve been there since nine this morning. You need rest.”

 

“I’m fine,” Q said sharply. It made his chest hurt. He winced and bit his lip at the pain, glad that Bond could not see him. “Really.”

 

“Q.”

 

He swallowed, hating when Bond used his no-nonsense tone. It was low and dangerous, promising consequences that Q would not enjoy.

 

“Alright. I’ll go home,” Q said, folding to Bond’s demands.

 

“And eat something,” Bond told him, in the same voice. Q’s stomach growled weakly. He had forgotten to eat almost all day. That morning’s toast and egg breakfast seemed suddenly very, very far away.

 

“Okay,” Q said, propping his elbows up on the edge of the desk. He put his forehead into his palms so that he did not have to look at the pile of work or the unanswered emails in his inbox. Selfishly, he wished Bond was there and standing at the door like he sometimes did, Q’s coat in hand as a silent cue that it was time to go home. That meant a cab ride together where Q almost always took advantage of napping on Bond’s shoulder. It was nice and warm and safe with Bond; it had become a place where he did not have to think about all of the pressures and responsibilities of his title. Feeling under the weather, Q wanted that now more than ever. He knew he must be sick when he did not feel any sort of repulsion at his desires.

 

“Q,” Bond said. The silence must have stretched on too long. Q straightened in his chair.

 

“Report in tomorrow morning at 1100 CET,” Q replied, as if the lull had not happened. “If you need any support, I have staff here.”

 

“I doubt this will be difficult,” Bond said, and Q could almost see his smile. It was the nice one that made his face look ten years younger. Q was one of the few people privy to it. “Go home and get some sleep.”

 

“Okay,” Q said again. “Good night.”

 

“Good night,” Bond said, and rang off.

 

Q sighed and leaned back in his office chair for a long time. Going home meant getting up and putting his coat on, walking all the way to the end of Q Division and then taking the lifts up, passing through security, walking a block to the tube, and then taking the tube for six stops, getting off and then walking another two blocks to his flat. From there is was five flights up and a long walk to the end of the corridor. The thought of the exercise made Q feel physically exhausted. He did not have the energy yet, and resolved to do a bit more work before attempting to go home. Maybe if he sat down long enough, he would feel a bit more inclined to stand up again.

 

He started with some of the emails, then got fed up with some of the requests and gave up, turning his attention instead to the stack of paperwork that had been living on his desk long before the new pile of folders. Q went through and signed off on some things, declined others, performed some impressive calculations to make a project fall within budget, and then placed them in their respective outgoing trays. He made a mental note to take them with him when he left so that they could be dropped in the delivery area, where one admin assistant or another would take care of making sure they got to where they needed to go. Then he went back to the emails for a bit, felt frustrated again, and moved to the new pile of paperwork. The first one almost made him flip his desk over. It was patently _infuriating_ that he had to do all of this menial work... He then spent the next ten minutes coughing himself into a painful fit. The burn in his chest only added to the rage he felt at the entire audit procedure.

 

The phone rang as he flipped through pages upon pages of horribly hand-written notes that made him painfully cross-eyed. But it was like a train wreck and he could not stop looking through it, despite the headache that made him feel as if his right eye were about to liquefy in its socket. The phone rang again and Q picked it up on his Bluetooth automatically.

 

“This is Q,” he said.

 

“Are you _still_ at work?”

 

The moment Bond’s voice came through his earpiece, Q cringed and looked at the clock. It was nearly two in the morning. He had only expected to stay an hour at the most, but time had gotten away from him.

 

“No... I have my work phone forwarded to my mobile...”

 

“Q.”

 

“I’m leaving now. You caught me walking out the door.”

 

Even to Q’s ears, it sounded like an outright lie.

 

“Whatever you’re doing right now, put it down,” Bond instructed. Helpless when Bond used his Navy Commander Voice, Q did as he was asked and closed the folder. There was only so much resistance he could manage against a double-oh after all. And he was very tired... “Now, turn off your computer, put on your coat, and clock out. Take a cab home.”

 

“Fine...” Q said, logging out of his email, the server, and everything else. He powered the machine down with a sigh and stood up. When he stretched, his back made sounds that were probably not good for someone his age. “Oh, what about Velasco’s poolside rendezvous?” Q asked.

 

Bond snorted.

 

“Prostitute,” he said.

 

“Programmed in his phone?” Q asked, feeling as though under water when he walked around his desk and grabbed for his coat. His headache made him feel off-balance, so he leaned against the nearest filing cabinet to combat the dizziness. “And with his wife around?”

 

“People have done crazier things,” Bond said.

 

“I suppose,” Q agreed, pulling his arms into his jacket once the spell passed. He cared fuck all about the buttons, feeling the weight of exhaustion heavily on his shoulders from all the movement. “Is she worth investigation?”

  
“Who?” Bond asked.

 

“The call girl,” Q said.

 

“It was a man,” Bond replied, and Q paused only momentarily, not one to judge.

 

“Oh,” he said, picking up his bag from the floor. “Is he worth investigation?” He shoved his phone and tablet computer inside and then latched it.  

 

“No,” Bond said. “Now, go home.”

 

“Going...” Q replied tiredly, pulling his bag over his shoulder. “1100 CET tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

 

“Good night, Q,” Bond said, with clear finality.

 

“Good night, 007,” Q replied and rang off.

 

He removed his headset and put it back onto the charger on his desk, then picked up the pile of paperwork to go out and shoved it under one arm. Afterwards, Q locked his office and bypassed the bullpen to drop off the paperwork in the appropriated area for such things. Without even bidding farewell to the evening crew, Q slipped out and made the long trek topside.

 

At half past two in the morning when it was bitter cold and raining, it was hard to find a cab. Q managed to hail one down about a block from MI6, where taxis loitered near a cluster of pubs around closing time. Q hopped in one and, too tired to worry about his usual safety procedures to prevent being tailed, gave the driver his address. It took only twenty minutes before Q finally arrived home, where he dropped his bag, coat, and soaked umbrella onto the floor in the cluttered foyer. He had the presence of mind to lock his door and activate the alarm system before kicking off his shoes and stumbling the length of the hallway towards the bedroom, where he bodily fell into the mattress and into a deep sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q gets worse, Bond worries, and Eve thinks they're both quite foolish.

 

Q swore that his head had just hit the pillow when his alarm clock blared to life.

 

He listened to the shrill whine for a few minutes, unable to move right away. When Q finally had enough strength, he moved his arm to hit the snooze button, fingers catching on the correct button on the second attempt. Turning over onto his side, Q moved from his part of the bed to Bond’s and breathed in the scent of him that still lingered on the sheets and pillowcase. That, in combination with the quiet and gentle rain against the sill, had his eyelids falling shut of their own volition. He told himself it would just be five more minutes and then he would get up...

 

It felt like only seconds before the alarm clock went off again.

 

Q blindly beat at it until it quieted. With a groan, he slowly moved up to sit with his back against the headboard, and pulled his legs up halfway to himself. His whole body hurt, centred around the ache in his chest that seemed to have gotten worse over the past few hours. Q leaned forward to press his forehead to his knees and coughed feebly. The hard, dry cough had matured, leaving behind a heavy wetness that felt like trying to draw breath through a damp sponge. Coughing brought only momentary relief as some of the pressure alleviated, but it left behind a soreness that Q had a feeling would linger all day. He lay there for some time, forcing his lungs to expand and contract despite the pain in each effort. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but duty called. He had meetings to attend and paperwork to do, but most of all, he had Bond out in the field, counting on him. It was the thought of Bond that gave him the strength to put on his glasses and slowly climb out of bed.

 

Shivering, he dragged one of the blankets with him and kept it around his shoulders as he shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. He put the kettle on and then sat at the kitchen island, hunched over in the warm microfibre. Q tried not to think about what Bond would do if he was there, but because he felt cold and miserable, he allowed himself to indulge, just this once. He imagined it would be much like the previous morning: waking to the press of tender, stubbly kisses on his forehead, a warm body flush against his, and the feel of lazy fingers carding through his hair. He knew that Bond would make him stay in bed all day and force food and tea on him at every opportunity. If he learned one thing during their time out of bed together, it was that Bond liked to see him fed, which is the only reason he had actually started taking breakfast instead of drinking straight caffeine as a substitute.

 

The kettle whistled and Q got up slowly to take it off the hob. Then he dropped a teabag into a mug, added the hot water and two spoonfuls of sugar, and returned to his seat at the kitchen island. A few sips of scalding tea had him burning up, and Q dropped the blanket onto the floor carelessly. Then he spent a few minutes coughing into his elbow before leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool marble counter top. The dizziness threatened to overwhelm him for a moment and his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sensation. It constituted an impressive display of self-control that Q did not retch right there. Needless to say, he felt a bloody mess.

 

“Get up,” he told himself. His voice sounded cracked and weak to his own ears. But with a few more words of encouragement, Q managed to lift his head, dump out the rest of his tea, and trudge towards the bathroom. It was only when he caught sight of himself in the mirror that Q realised two things: the first that he had fallen asleep in yesterday’s clothes and the second that he looked like death warmed over.

 

So not only did he feel a bloody mess, but he _looked_ like one too.

 

Stripping down, Q stepped into a hot shower and stayed there for an indeterminable amount of time. The heat eased the dull ache in his back and shoulders, but it soothed him almost too well. Q started violently when the water suddenly turned cold, nearly falling through the curtain in his shock. It took a moment for him to conclude that he must have fallen asleep, which was probably not a good sign about his physical condition.

 

Shivering under the cold spray, Q hurried to wash, huddling into a towel as soon as he rinsed. Afterward, brushing his teeth took longer than it should have and shaving actually bordered on dangerous. But in the end, Q managed to get not-rumpled clothes on and looked somewhat more presentable. He tried not to think of his warm bed as he shrugged into his windcheater and pulled on his bag in his hurry to get to work. Outside, it rained relentlessly; even his umbrella did not keep him from getting soaked on his way to the Underground.

 

He took the late tube in, catching the tail end of the morning commute. It forced Q to wedge himself in an uncomfortable spot near the connecting doors, but that did not prevent him from dozing the entire way; he almost missed his stop.

 

When Q arrived, it was 0932. The day shift was back and they all openly stared at him as he walked in and made for his office. Q rarely came in past 0900, only breaking this habit on occasion when his agents were in drastically different time zones that required alternative hours. Even when his work stretched into the early hours of the morning, Q was always back the next day at HQ by 0900 without fail. This was the first time in his appointment as Quartermaster that he had arrived late. Try as he might, Q could not figure out where the extra half-hour had come from, but then gave up his attempts at an excuse. There was nothing wrong with letting his people think that he had overslept or--heaven forbid--had a life outside of MI6.

 

“Okay...” Q said to himself, as he entered his office and began to prioritise his day. A nasty round of coughing distracted him for a moment and Q suddenly wished that _sleeping at home_ was the only thing on his list. With a wheezing sigh, he dropped his wet umbrella in the stand behind the door, pulled off his dripping coat, and had just started up his computer when Moneypenny arrived. She had his Scrabble mug in her hand.

 

“Good morning,” she said cautiously. He saw her eyes look him up and down.

 

“If you say so,” Q replied, sitting down to hide behind his monitors. He had 704 unread email messages, destroying his valiant attempt from the previous night to get his inbox down to under 600. It took all he had not to begin pulling at his hair. When Moneypenny did not say anything for a few minutes, Q looked up at her. Everything she wanted to say was written all over her face. She opened her mouth, but Q beat her to it: “Before you ask, _again_ , I am fine. Just very tired.”

 

“I’ve seen you tired, Q,” Eve said, and stepped closer to his desk, setting the steaming cup of tea down on the edge. “You’re looking ragged.” Q looked back at his screen, knowing that if he met her gaze, he might be overcome with guilt for lying to her. She was very good at knowing when people were telling the truth just as much as she excelled at making people do what she wanted. When he did not say anything, she added: “And not ragged in the good, just-been-shagged way.”

 

Q felt his face burn uncomfortably warm, at odds with the chills he had been fighting all morning.

 

“Maybe you ought to go home,” Moneypenny suggested.

 

“I have a lot of work to do,” Q replied, patting the giant pile of paperwork next to him with a grimace. “Audits.”

 

“You were here until two in the morning,” said Eve. “I think that warrants a rest.”

 

Q finally looked up at her and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

 

“Strange. I didn’t think you to do Bond’s bidding so easily, Miss Moneypenny,” Q said.

 

“You think he put me up to this?” Eve asked. She at least had the decency to try and look surprised.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re right.”

 

“I know. I’m just not sure why you’re going along with it.”

 

“Because it’s cute,” Eve said, and she smiled. “You two, I mean.”

 

Q grumbled swears under his breath as he leaned back in his chair. He barely had enough energy to breathe, let alone deal with this upcoming conversation.

 

“Q,” she began, more serious now. “He’s worried about you.”

 

“He shouldn’t be. That’s not his job,” Q replied, a bit more forcefully than he intended. Eve raised an eyebrow at him and Q pointedly looked elsewhere. “We agreed. We have boundaries. He knows that.”

 

“It’s not like him, you know,” Eve said, her voice very soft. Q found himself holding his breath to hear her words. “You’ve read his file. He doesn’t...do that sort of thing.”

 

“Exactly,” Q answered.

 

“But he is,” Eve hedged. “And that must mean he wants to. Even after what happened in Venice.”

 

Q, for once, did not know what to say.

 

“Don’t push him away when he’s trying so hard, Q,” she said, looking at him pleadingly. She really could get anyone to bend to her wishes by just batting her eyelashes. Q pointedly opted to be British in the face of such a demand, and drank some tea.

 

“No promises,” he replied, setting the mug down. She shook her head.

 

“I don’t know how you accomplish anything together, what with the both of you being so bloody stubborn,” Moneypenny said, before her expression turned thoughtful. “Though I suppose the sex must be excellent.”

 

Q felt a flush threatening his cheeks again.

 

“Is that all, Miss Moneypenny?” Q asked, trying for a dismissive tone, but failing when his voice broke on the last two syllables of her name. He tried to clear his throat, but ended up coughing again. Eve politely waited until he finished and could breathe before speaking.

 

“No, one more thing,” Eve said, as she made her way to the door. “I’ve postponed your team meeting at 11 and rescheduled it for next week. You have an appointment with Medical at that time. And if you don’t show up, they have specific orders to physically retrieve and then detain you until 007 returns from the field.”

 

“Eve...”

 

Q openly glared at her.

 

“Oh, and I’ll bring by lunch afterwards,” she said, and smiled cheerfully before departing with a wave.

 

Q kept glaring until the click of her heels faded away. Then he leaned back in his chair and drank the rest of the tea she brought him. If nothing else, at least he did not have to get up to make his own, and if he could prevent himself from coughing, he could probably keep it down.

 

A reminder alert popped up on his screen, indicating that he had fifteen minutes before he could expect Bond’s call. And, oh, if Q was not going to dig into Bond for meddling after specifically telling him to just _focus_ on the bloody mission and _not_ worry about him. As sweet as it might seem to some... Q touched the mark on his clavicle, rubbing at it with his forefinger until his anger dissipated. Sure, maybe it was sweet, but Q could never tell anyone that, _especially_ Bond. Despite what he had said about it not crossing any lines, Q was still not sure. They were overstepping, they _had to be_ , and yet it seemed that neither of them cared, even with all the potential for this thing to go _so wrong_. What did that even mean? He cursed the returning headache that made his thoughts jumbled and hazy. He did not have time for this now (or ever) and sought to get back to work.

 

Refocusing on his computer, Q pulled up the Westin’s video feeds again, searching for the footage from earlier that morning. He found Velasco waiting at the pool at 0130, where he met a man--no, a boy, really--who he kissed thoroughly and then with whom he disappeared. Q used the best angle of the boy for facial recognition. Even though Bond had said not to investigate, Q would not get sloppy. There was no way he would not consider everyone Velasco came in contact with to be anything less than another ETA operative.

 

While running the software to search the face in all known databases, Q swallowed a Panadol dry and tried not to cough it back up moments later. His program opened a new window just as he was getting his breath back. The Dirección General de Tráfico listed him as Tomás Gutiérrez of Madrid. Q pulled his plate numbers and driving record, but did not find anything so much as a speeding ticket attached to his name. The DGT had everything from his birth certificate to his current address and phone number (which did not match the burner phone, so Q tagged it for later), which Q used to compile a profile. Everything was ordinary: average job, height, weight, grades, family. But it was almost too nondescript for Q’s tastes, which sent up a red flag. Q used the facial scan again, but set the bar a little lower, from an 93% match to below 75%, and let the program run through the scripts.

 

His phone rang at exactly 1000. Q put it to speaker.

 

“Call me darling and I _will_ make you regret it,” Q said, before Bond could get in the first word.

 

“I take it Eve gave me away,” was the cheerful reply. On the other end, Q could hear the sound of a strong breeze and far-off waves. He stubbornly did not think about how much he would have liked to be there with Bond, making good use of that 400 quid per night mattress. He had to remind himself that he was angry with Bond, though that had now faded into nothing but exasperation.

 

“I don’t even want to know why on earth you decided to get her involved,” Q sighed.

 

“She asked.”

 

“Lovely. I wasn’t aware that this arrangement would be a _ménages à troi_ s.”

 

“I wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself.”

 

“I’m not a pet that needs taken care of, James,” Q told him firmly.

 

“Will you eat or drink otherwise when I’m gone?” he asked.

 

Q remembered then that he had completely foregone breakfast that morning, but like hell he would admit to that.

 

“Of course. I’m an adult.”

 

“Then you’ll go to Medical today like an adult and get checked out.”

 

“Hypocrite,” Q retorted, knowing that Bond would rather let all of his limbs rot off before admitting that he had to go to Medical for treatment.

 

“If you’re fine, then there’s nothing to worry about. Just do it for my peace of mind.”

 

“So you essentially want me to rearrange my entire schedule today to humour you,” Q said.

 

“Exactly,” Bond replied, and Q felt his shoulders slump in defeat. He just did not have the energy to be as miffed as he should.

 

“You’re an arse, you know that, don’t you?” Q asked, rubbing at his temples. “You are so very lucky I find you useful or else I would have rid myself of you long ago.”

 

“Why, Q, I believe that that is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

 

“I _will_ change the locks and then program the trigger on my alarm system to be set to the _shoot first and ask questions_ later mode”

 

“I do enjoy a relationship that keeps me on my toes.”

 

“You’re infuriating,” Q said, realising too late that he was smiling and that Bond could probably tell.

 

“You couldn’t have it any other way,” Bond replied smugly. Q could practically hear his ego swelling.

 

“I’m still not pleased,” Q said, “but now isn’t the time for that. What about Velasco?”

 

“He disappeared with his date and then came back to the hotel at around 0300,” Bond said. “I saw him leave the dining room at 0900 this morning. He and his wife are at the spa for a couples’ massage.” A massage sounded lovely, Q thought, rolling his aching shoulders as he watched the video from that morning while simultaneously pulling up the hotel’s appointment book.

 

“They’re scheduled for another outing today at one. A tour of a nearby orange orchard,” Q said.

 

“That might be convenient...” Bond replied. He most likely was thinking about the advantages of an assassination in an orange grove. Lots of plant cover could sometimes be beneficial (it had been for Bond in the Congo a month ago), but it could also serve as more of a burden, too (which 006 had found out the hard way in Venezuela). It was Bond’s choice, either way. As long as Velasco was taken down, M did not care, and the Spanish government would not either.

“I’m sending the details to your mobile, now,” Q said, sending Bond the intel via secure SMS. “You’ll find all the equipment you need in the boot of the Audi.”

 

“Already have. It was almost Christmas,” Bond replied, the grin apparent in his voice.

 

“ _Almost_? And here I thought it would be just your style, what with the .50 BMG being overkill and all,” Q said, thinking of the huge cartridge utilized by the Accuracy International sniper rifle currently hidden in the compartment beneath the spare tyre.

 

"I'm still holding out for my exploding pen."

 

“I’ll have to try harder next time.”

 

“I must be your favourite.”

 

“I told you, I don’t play favourites, but if you manage to keep that AS50 in good condition, I may consider changing my mind.”

 

“Hmm and what do I get if I am the favourite?”

 

“What’s the fun in telling you?” Q asked. It was so much easier to flirt with Bond than it was to be mad at him: their relationship in a nutshell.

 

“That’s true. You’ll have to surprise me,” Bond said.

 

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

“You always do.”

 

Q did not have time to bask in the compliment or ponder its innuendo. His computer pinged with an alert. The facial recognition software had returned several hits. The one with the highest match rate matched all of Tomás Gutiérrez’s identifying features. This name was different: Julien Rodriguez, of approximately the same age as Tomás Gutiérrez, but of much a much different background. He was from Navarre, in the Greater Basque Country, and one of the youngest-known members of the ETA at 19. He had disappeared about three years ago, once the ETA began drawing up ceasefire agreements with the Spanish government. Perhaps Rodriguez, like Velasco, wanted to prevent a peace settlement and continue fighting violently for independence?

 

“You may be interested in this,” Q said, and proceeded to fill Bond in on what he had discovered about the call boy. The other line remained dutifully quiet, as if Bond were taking thorough notes.

 

“I suppose I won’t be catching the afternoon flight after all,” Bond sighed regretfully, once Q had finished.

 

“Your flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow evening,” Q said, double checking the reservations to ensure that he had not been mistaken.

 

“I was thinking about coming back early,” Bond replied. Q bit down on a retort about how he did not need to be coddled. He kept it more professional, instead, all previous playfulness gone.

 

“You will not come back until your mission is completed,” Q said, with clear finality, thanking gods he did not believe in that his voice did not give out. He needed to make it transparent in this instance that he would uphold the clear divide between their personal and professional lives. MI6 came first and always would. He knew that Bond knew that instinctually, but Q wanted him to also know that he had not forgotten that commitment. Work would always primary and the mission could not be compromised, no matter how (secretly) endearing Q thought Bond’s plans. Q frowned at himself and shook his head as if to clear it, attributing his sentimentality on his probable fever. He should have been more concerned about his deteriorating health making him susceptible to such childish thoughts, but there were more pressing matters at hand. “Velasco is still your primary target. Terminate on sight. As for Rodriguez, adhere to all protocols for information extraction. Deadly force should be used only as a last resort. If M authorises a kill order, you will be informed.”

 

“Understood,” Bond replied.

 

“I will update M on the situation and be in contact,” Q said, already beginning to type up a draft email to send to Mallory. “If you need assistance, you know how to reach me.”

 

“I’m sure I can manage,” Bond answered.

 

“Don’t be cocky, 007. You might get shot at,” Q said and Bond laughed. It was a rare thing to hear Bond laugh, _really_ laugh and not pretend. Q was probably one of the few people in the world who had heard it. That brought a smile to his lips before he could stop it, his professionalism melting away.

 

“God, I hope so,” Bond replied. “Things would be much more exciting. I can’t remember the last time I was so bored doing fieldwork.”

 

“You’re very lucky I don’t report your desirous self-destructive habits to Psych,” Q told him.

 

“Pot, kettle,” was Bond’s smart answer.

 

“Unfair assessment,” Q replied, finishing his email to M, which he copied to Tanner and Eve before sending it off. “I am not even half as bad as you.”

 

“No, but you’re involved with me, which makes you by default more than half as bad as me.”

 

Q was very glad that there stood no one to bear witness to the colour that came to his face. He definitely resolved to blame all of his uncontrolled reactions on his illness.

 

“If you’re done, some of us have work to do,” Q replied, trying to ignore his hot cheeks.

 

“And appointments to keep,” Bond said. Q could hear his grin as he taunted: “You don’t want to be late for your date with Medical.”

 

“I do hope you’re looking forward to sleeping on the couch when you get back,” Q replied sweetly, cutting the connection before Bond could get in another word edgewise.

 

He had less than a half hour to get some work done, over ten minutes of which he spent on the Bluetooth with Tanner to explain the situation in Spain. He then spent another ten minutes reading through a surveillance status report on 004, who was in deep cover in Kiev. Luckily 006 was on leave and he did not have to concern himself with another hot-headed Double-Oh agent. The remaining time he wasted on the email pileup in his inbox. He was just contemplating officially petitioning for a secretary to help him with all his tedious work when his phone beeped. Q turned the headset over to speaker on the second ring.

 

“This is Q.”

 

“This is Eve.”

 

She did not sound happy. Q looked at the clock. 1107. _Oh_ , right.

 

“About that appointment, Miss Moneypenny,” Q began, nervously glancing at the door when he thought he heard something just outside of it. Eve _would_ send in a fully armed extraction team just to embarrass him, so he felt his anxiety justified. “Can we reschedule it to 1400?”

 

“No.”

 

“I have--”

 

“No.”

 

“But--”

 

“Q, if you are not down in Medical in five minutes, I _will_ take you there _by force_ myself.”

 

He had a feeling there would be much unpleasantness to it, characterized by an authorised use of handcuffs, and Q did not want to deal with the drama. Or the resulting gossip that would spread through MI6 like wildfire.

 

“I’m _going_ ,” Q sighed. The words left him on a breath that left his chest too quickly, resulting in a round of coughing that left Q clutching at his desk to keep from losing consciousness. It was only after the pain and dizziness subsided that Q saw the green light on his speakerphone, indicating Moneypenny was still on the line. “Not a word from you,” he told her hoarsely. “I am going.”

 

“I’ll bring you soup for lunch,” was all she said before ringing off.

 

Q groaned and put his head into his hands for a moment, trying to centre himself before he stood up to make the embarrassing trek to the clinic. He hoped that when Eve rescheduled his team meeting that she had not been forthcoming in the details as to the reason why. But as he walked through the bullpen, he felt the stares. Pointedly, Q walked straight-backed and with a gait that said he had more important places to be, hoping that it would be enough to quash any notion or rumour that he was ill enough to go to Medical. At least no one stopped him on his way out.

 

When he stepped off the lift at the appropriate floor, Q was surprised to find there was actually a queue outside of the med station, made up of miserable-looking MI6 employees from almost every department. Q recognized a few from accounting and several others from R&D. The majority of them wore facial masks to prevent the spread of whatever nasty thing was going around. The corridor was filled with the cacophony of coughs and sneezes that made Q nervous. He did not like being ill, let alone being around ill people. Q thought it might be best to leave despite the threats Moneypenny had given him, thinking of at least four hiding places she might not be able to find him, but he did not make it far. A hand came down on his shoulder, preventing him from escaping back the way he had come.

 

“There you are, Quartermaster. I’ve been waiting for you.”

 

When he turned, he came face-to-face with Sarah, the senior nurse practitioner. She had grey at the temples and lines around her eyes from too many years of late nights at the A&E, but held a presence that could cow almost any unruly patient. Even Bond begrudgingly sat still for her the few times he had been sequestered. Q wondered if Bond had specifically told Eve to request Sarah for the job as a sort of punishment for the time he had hauled the Double-Oh to Medical two months ago to have her tend to his torn and infected stitches. He knew there would be no getting out of this now that Sarah had spotted him. She already had his health folder under her clipboard.

 

“Hullo there,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. He could not see her mouth below her facial mask, but her eyes came across stern.

 

“You weren’t leaving, were you?” she asked, a challenge in her voice. “Especially when I had to rearrange my appointments today to fit you in?”

 

“No...of course not...”

 

Sarah did not seem convinced, but did not comment. She instead led him past the queue and into the main waiting room. There, she bypassed the rest of the line and the masked secretary as she led him through a door and into a space that smelled strongly of disinfectant. At the end of a short corridor, she had him stand on a scale.  

 

“You’ve lost almost half a stone,” she said, marking down the number on her forms as he stepped down. Q knew he was sick when the first thought that came to mind was how disappointed Bond would be if he knew, especially with all the effort he had been putting into making breakfast each morning he happened to be in London. Q must have forgotten to uphold this ritual when Bond was on his last mission, resulting in the unintended weight loss. When he did not say anything, Sarah shook her head. “If you keep neglecting yourself, you’ll just end up in here more often.”

 

“Are you saying you don’t want me to come visit anymore?” Q asked, trying for humour. He had only been in Medical twice for himself since starting at MI6, both because of minor injuries he had acquired from R&D. That did not mean he did not know Medical well, whether it be because of staff injuries or exposures in his department or personally having to force the Double-Ohs to get checked out after they returned home. Most of the time, though, he came for Bond. It started immediately after Skyfall, when Bond had been brought in, suffering shock and hypothermia. He slept for two days, whether out of exhaustion or grief, no one quite knew. Regardless, Q had thought it only right that he stay--even if just for a few hours at a time--just like the time after and the time after that. He felt responsible, on some level, as Bond’s Quartermaster, then even more so as a friend, lover, whatever he happened to be to the agent. He had a feeling he did not want to know Medical’s opinion on the matter; half the staff were overt romantics. Sarah was not one of them. He gave her a wounded look. “I thought we were friends?”

 

“Don’t be cheeky,” she said, leading him into another room. There were several examination tables that took up the space, each one curtained off for privacy.  All but two were in use, and Sarah led Q to the one furthest from the door. She pulled the curtain closed with a flick of her wrist and had him sit on the table. He could hear other people murmuring and coughing behind the other screens. “So what brings you in today?”

 

“Miss Moneypenny threatened me with sequestering,” Q replied.

 

“Hmm, yes, good girl,” Sarah said fondly, flipping through his folder. “I suppose I should rephrase that question. How are you feeling today?”

 

“I’ve been better,” Q replied, and she gave him such a look that he elaborated: “Just feeling a bit run-down.”

 

“Your colour is poor,” Sarah said, as if agreeing with him.

 

“I don’t get out much,” Q supplied, as she pulled a thermometer off the wall and placed a disposable cone at the tip.

 

“None of us do,” was her response. She went for his right ear, but upon seeing the Bluetooth, she switched to the other and pressed the device gently into his left. It clicked after a moment, and she looked at the screen as she dropped the plastic cover into the nearest bin. “You do have a mild fever,” she said, jotting down the numbers onto his chart. “37.5.” Then she recorded his pulse and had him remove his cardigan so she could put a blood pressure cuff around his right arm. After it decompressed, she studied the dial and frowned as she said: “Your blood pressure’s on the low side.”

 

“I take it that’s not a good thing,” Q said, not asked.

 

“It's not necessarily a bad thing,” Sarah replied easily, before she proceeded to check his ears, eyes, and mouth with her penlight. “Are you experiencing anything else besides malaise? Headache? Sore throat?” Sarah prompted, as she began her examination of his lymph nodes. Her fingers felt cold against his skin.

 

“Headaches,” Q replied, “but that’s not uncommon for me.”

 

“I’ll bet you have a lot of those, dealing with the Double-Ohs,” Sarah said, drawing away from him to return to the form on her clipboard.

 

“You have no idea.”

 

“Oh, I think I do.”

 

They shared a smile.

 

“So, headaches,” Sarah said, bringing the conversation back round to its original purpose. “Anything else? And don’t bother lying to me. I did go to medical school.” Q sighed, wincing when it hurt. He knew it did not go unnoticed.

 

“I’ve had a dry cough,” Q supplied.

 

“How long?”

 

“It started yesterday.”

 

“Well, let’s have a listen, then.”

 

She listened to him breathe through her stethoscope for what seemed to be a long time. Q was not so unobservant that he did not notice that she kept coming coming back to his right lung. The right did not hurt any more than the left, but Q did not have the training to make any sort of judgement. Then, Sarah asked him to cough so she could hear it. Q obliged, not expecting to end up in a horrible fit that left him doubled over and gasping at the end. When the pain eventually subsided, Q realised that Sarah was no longer listening to him through the stethoscope. It was back around her neck. In her hand, she held out a cup of water, which Q gratefully took and sipped. His stomach riled against it, but he held it down somehow.

 

“If that is your definition of a dry cough, I think we need to have a discussion,” she said.

 

“It’s gotten worse this morning,” Q replied defensively, voice strained.

 

“It’s been on its way to getting worse for a while. You've probably been feeling run-down for a while now, am I right? After all, this doesn’t happen overnight,” Sarah informed him. It sounded as if she were trying to bite back on another lecture about self-neglect and the importance of taking care of himself.

 

"I've definitely felt better," Q admitted, and then tried for some humour: “Well go ahead and give me the bad news. Am I dying?” 

 

“You and everyone else,” she said. “You have a mild case of bronchitis.”

 

“Is that what’s going around?” Q asked, pulling his cardigan back over his shoulders.

 

“Mostly it’s the common cold, but it can escalate to bronchitis. From there, if pneumonia if you're not careful,” Sarah explained.

 

“But I haven’t had a cold at all,” Q said honestly. Even though he had been busy, he would have noticed that.

 

“Sometimes you don’t have to. Some people can just develop it without having a cold first, especially if their lungs are susceptible,” she replied. Q nodded in understanding; he always had been weak against chest colds.

 

“So it’s highly contagious, then,” Q murmured, thinking of Bond with some guilt. The last thing the agent needed was to come down with this, which he most likely would. Not only had they shared a bed, but kissed, shagged, hell, they even drank off of each other. If Bond caught it, he would be out of commission, and it would be Q’s fault.

 

“Yes,” Sarah said, “but not everyone will catch it. People with strong immune systems may be able to fight it off.” She meant it as a hint (or jab) about Q’s poor health. But he was less concerned about himself and more relieved for Bond, who happened to be in excellent physical shape. At least one of them could do their job.

 

“But for the rest of us, what? Antibiotics?” Q asked, hoping that it was the case. If he could pop a pill and take some Panadol, he might be able to finish out the day.

 

“Antibiotics don’t work in this case, I’m afraid. You need some good old-fashioned rest,” Sarah replied, and Q felt his shoulders slump.

 

“As lovely as that sounds, I don’t really have the time,” Q said. The words had no sooner left his lips when Q began to lean backwards, away from Sarah’s blazing stare.

 

“I will happily write up a letter to send to M, which will explain how you are going against medical advice and that your illness constitutes you as liability to yourself and those under your authority,” Sarah replied. Q did not have to see himself to know that whatever colour left in his face had successfully drained away. “But you do have a choice to avoid all of that by voluntarily going home.”  

 

“Can we come to a compromise?” Q asked, and before Sarah could reply in the negative, he pushed forward. “I have 007 out in the field now. His mission will be wrapped up by the early evening. At least let me stay on until then to see that everything goes smoothly.”

 

“You have a second-in-command for a reason,” Sarah replied.

 

“With whom 007 refuses to work,” Q countered. “Just let me finish with him, make sure he doesn’t burn down the country, then I’ll go home. I promise.”

 

“I will accept that under certain conditions,” she said, and Q frowned at her. “The first is that you will go home at 1700 today, not any later, even if the mission objective is not obtained by that time. The second is that between now and the point in time you work with 007, you will rest. No meetings, no lab work, and certainly nothing involving R&D. The most I want you to do is sit at your computer and play Solitaire.” Q was going to protest, but her glare silenced him. “And thirdly, that you will not be on premises tomorrow. Instead, you will be in bed, where you belong.”

 

Q’s frown deepened. He had too much work to do to take the day off.

 

“Accept these terms or I send you home now, by force,” she said, as if reading his mind. He weighed his options, choosing to do as she asked so that he could be there for support if Bond needed him. It was not as if he could not do some of his work from home tomorrow.

 

“Fine,” he conceded.

 

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said, pulling a box from the cabinet beside her, which she then handed to Q. It was a small sample box of five facial masks. “You’ll have to wear one of these.”

 

“What,” was all Q could think to say. Wearing a mask outside of medical would be like painting a target on his back. People would be constantly patronising him throughout the day to ask if he was feeling well. Or looking at him suspiciously while wondering what sort of contagion he picked up back in the hot rooms.

 

“Wear it or go home,” she said. “You’re contagious, remember?” He grudgingly opened the box and fished one of the masks out. To make it sit on his face properly, he had to take off his glasses and remove the headset to fit the loops around his ears. Once he got everything back on, Q found himself scowling as the lenses immediately fogged up when he breathed. Q had a feeling it would get very annoying very quickly and resolved to remove the mask the moment he was back in his office. Sarah must have seen this train of thought because she added: “And don’t even think about taking it off. Miss Moneypenny will be informed of our agreement to ensure that you adhere.”

 

“I do _not_ need a babysitter,” Q replied, a bit angrily. His lenses fogged up again when he coughed again. “I _don’t_ ,” he repeated, after his hacking had subsided. He had been nothing but cooperative so far, but having Eve neglect her work to watch him bordered on stupidity. But Sarah apparently did not see it that way. She picked up her clipboard and began writing aggressively.  

 

“I’m also going to prescribe you some cough medicine, which I want you to _actually_ take every six hours,” Sarah continued, as if he had not spoken. “You’ll want to have something to eat beforehand. Once you take it, go to bed. If it’s doing its job, you won’t want to do anything but that.” She ripped off a page from her prescription pad and made to hand it to Q, but stopped halfway and took it back, as if thinking (rightfully so) that Q would destroy it and/or never come to pick up the prescription. “I’ll have someone bring it round once the chemist has it filled.”

 

“Don’t you trust me?” Q asked.

 

“About as far as I can throw you,” Sarah replied.

 

“Well, you did say I lost almost half a stone,” Q said. “Can’t be that hard.”

 

“You’re almost as bad as 007, did you know that?” she asked, shaking her head at him. Q grimaced, knowing that Bond had been rubbing off on him, but how much, he had not been sure until now. Sarah laughed at whatever his expression looked like with only his eyes visible and went back to her paperwork. “I’ll want you to come back in a week so I can check on you, understood?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Q said.

 

She swatted at him with the clipboard and shooed him out. Q was more than happy to escape, keeping his head down as he left Medical, past the miserable-looking queue, and the back way to his office that bypassed the bullpen. His relief was short-lived when he saw Moneypenny sitting in his chair, tapping away at her mobile. She had gone through great lengths to clear off the clutter on his desk and arrange everything into neat, tidy rows and stacks for him. A bag of takeaway perched on the corner. It was from the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away and one of Q’s very few guilty dining pleasures that not many people knew about. Q knew now why M would not let anyone else have Moneypenny, for any price. She was just too damn good at what she did. Eve knew it, too, because she did not have to say a word or even look up. She merely pointed at the couch and Q obediently went to sit on it.

 

“So in the five minutes you’ve left Medical, there’s already a rumour mill started that you have the new strain of bird flu,” Eve said cheerfully, as she put down her phone.

 

“Good. Maybe everyone will leave me alone,” Q replied, pulling off the mask.

 

“Not likely. You know some people here would be dying to get their hands on a blood sample. It’s a good thing you have locks on your door,” she said, glaring at the mask in his hand.

 

“What? You’ve already been exposed,” Q said to her look. “That’s what you get for meddling.” He glanced at her up and down. “And for sitting at my desk. It’s contaminated, you know.”

 

“I disinfected,” Moneypenny replied with a smile as she got up and began pulling things out of the takeaway bag. “I got you egg drop soup and some plain rice for lunch.”

 

“That sounds terribly exciting,” Q said, disappointed that there was no General Tso's or at least lemon pepper chicken on the menu. He retracted that disappointment when his stomach turned at the thought.

 

“Bland foods are best when you’re sick,” Eve said, sending a glare his way when Q began to get up off the couch. He moodily sat back down and allowed Eve to bring over his small lunch portion. Q balanced the box of rice on the arm of the couch with intention to bring it home with him, as he doubted he could eat it in his current state. But he had to eat something or else Eve would not leave him alone, so he worked at the plastic lid on his hot cup of soup.

 

“I’m not going to die,” Q replied, placing the lid next to the rice.

 

“Bond would go on a murder spree if you did,” Eve said, opening her own box of what smelled like Egg Foo Young.

 

“At least I’ll be avenged,” Q mused, not letting his secret pleasure at that statement show. Instead, he focused on his meal. He did not bother with a spoon, bringing the bowl to his lips to drink directly from it. Despite it not being Q’s favourite chicken dish, he conceded that the soup was rather good. And it did not make his nausea worse, which was a good thing, but that did not mean he wanted to risk the rice. Eve seemed placated enough with the fact that he took the soup and did not force him to eat more.

 

Over the course of their meal, they chatted for some time, though Q made sure to keep the topic specifically about work because he knew that she wanted to talk about all the things he did not, like Bond and their relationship and the illness Q felt draining his last stores of energy. During this time, Q’s office phone rang three times, but since Moneypenny had apparently disconnected his Bluetooth ( _how_ Q had no idea), he was unable to answer. Instead, she took messages for him and told people off in a very firm voice when they undoubtedly tried to get around her. Q felt torn between grateful and annoyed at her efficiency. It leaned more towards annoyed when she would not let him get off the couch to check his computer for updates on the situation in Spain.

 

“Eve, I’m working,” Q said.

 

“No, you’re resting. Doctor’s orders,” Eve insisted, and put a forceful hand on his shoulder to keep him from rising.

 

“Look, I’m sitting down here,” Q said, definitely annoyed now, “and I will be sitting down at my desk as well. What’s the difference?”

 

“The difference is that you’re going to put your feet up and lie down for a while,” Eve replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You’ll have plenty of time to get intel updates before you speak with Bond later this afternoon.” She had the blanket he kept draped over the back of the sofa in her arms. It was the one Q usually kipped under when he worked long stretches at MI6 and needed a quick power nap in between projects and keeping the Double-Ohs alive. In his current state--slightly feverish and now well-fed--Q conceded that a quick nap would do him more good than harm, even with all the prep he needed to help Bond and the impending deadline for all the paperwork on his desk.

 

“Fine, but only for a little while,” Q gave in, too tired to argue, but not too tired to have missed the glitter of triumph in Eve’s eyes. “But you are _not_ tucking me in.” She laughed and dropped the blanket over his head, which he pulled down over himself to rest the material over his knees, messing up his already wild hair.  

 

“Get some sleep,” she said, swiping his headset so quickly that Q could not even react. _Damn spies_. “And don’t get up from that couch. I’ll know if you have.”

 

Q made a mental note to sweep for any bugs she might have planted.

 

“At least bring me my tablet,” Q said.

 

She looked suspicious. He smoothed his expression into something innocent.

 

“I want to play Angry Birds.”

 

Eve fished the tablet out of his bag when he directed her to it, but held it just out of his reach.

 

“No work, just games, promise?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No, you have to say: ‘Eve, I promise’.”

 

“Are we in primary school?”

 

She dropped the tablet onto his lap with only a few more threats and a promise to return in two hours. It was only after she had closed the door behind her and the sound of her heels dropped away that Q picked up the tablet and hacked into his MI6 email. The sight of an additional one hundred and three emails had him coughing in a rage.

 

“Fuck...” he wheezed, after it was all over.

 

The room gave an uncomfortable lurch when he lifted his head, causing Q to lean back against the arm of the sofa and close his eyes. Not only his head and chest, but now his stomach hurt from coughing. His skin felt tight and hot, borderline suffocating with discomfort. With a shaky hand, Q loosened his tie and undid the top few buttons of his shirt. Then he lay there awkwardly for some time, steadying his breaths and trying to build up his strength to move again. When he managed, Q used that bit of energy to slide down to more of a horizontal position onto the cushions and drop his tablet onto the back of the sofa. Work be damned, he would do it later. Q flipped his glasses up to rest on the top of his head, not wanting them on the ground where he might break them accidentally, and, overheated, kicked off the blanket Eve had thrown on top of him.

 

Lying down felt wondrous. His body practically sang in relief as it sank deep into the well-worn sofa cushions. His eyes closed almost immediately despite his best effort to keep them open. _Just a half hour_ he told himself, because truly, he had so many things to do and not enough hours in the day...But even the thought of the emails and paperwork and his agents in the field could not keep Q from slipping into a much-needed sleep. Just as unconsciousness began to overtake him, Q remembered that he had forgotten to set an alarm.

 

 _Bugger all_ was Q’s last coherent thought.

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

The streets were unbelievably crowded for midday during the workweek.

 

Bond tapped a finger on the steering wheel, staring ahead at the unending line of traffic before him; it extended on forever in the rear view mirror. Q could could have probably changed all the lights in his favour, but it would have done nothing due to the number of vehicles lined up in all directions.

 

Bond felt himself frown at the thought of Q, who was by no means taking it easy or taking care of himself. Without someone there to tell him to sleep and eat, Q would not, even when he desperately needed it. It was the curse of his work ethic. Bond glanced at the clock, annoyed, and not just at the fact that he could not make it close to the motorway, but because Moneypenny still had not called him. When they spoke that morning, she said that she would after Q’s appointment with Medical. It was over an hour later and still, nothing. His annoyance gave way to some anxiety, which Bond found distastefully uncharacteristic. He was even more worried than before, and the lack of anything to focus on while stuck in the monotonous crawl of traffic just made it worse.

 

When his mobile finally rang, Bond nearly crushed it in his haste to answer.

 

“Bond,” he said, with more calm than he felt.

 

“It’s Eve.”

 

“Well?”

 

“You’re perfect for one another, did you know that? I have never met two more stubborn people in my life.”

 

“Flattered,” Bond said, gripping at the phone hard when she did not immediately reply. He knew she was waiting for him to ask, and Bond threw his pride away to do so, not even sparing a moment to give it a second thought. At this point, he did not care about what people might think of him. “Is Q alright?”

 

“It’s bronchitis. He’ll be alright if he takes it easy for a few days,” Eve replied, sounding unconcerned at the news.

 

Bond, on the other hand, gripped the steering wheel tightly with his free hand. The memory of a long-ago conversation came to mind, when Bond had survived a close shave on a mission because he could hold his breath for an unusually long period of time. After returning from the field, over drinks, he told Q he had the Royal Navy to thank for that. In response, Q had self-deprecatingly admitted that he never learned how to swim because of his inability to hold his breath, which he blamed on his repeated chest colds he had suffered as a child. _I still have terribly weak lungs_ he had said, by way of explanation, and Bond had teased him for it in good humour.

 

Now, there was nothing funny about it. Bond knew the dangers of chest colds; he had seen many people succumb to them, often during the harsh, prolonged winters in northern Scotland. They crept up slowly, but got worse quickly. Bond thought of the way Q had started coughing in less than a few hours and how deep it already sounded. It took everything he had to not illegally drive up over the kerb and make his way to the nearest airport.

 

Bond gripped the wheel so hard that he felt the skin over his knuckles strain under the tension. He had to calm down. This was a mission. He could not just walk away because he felt like it, no matter how good of a reason. He had a duty to the Crown. Besides, Q would be angry, M would be furious, and who knew when they would be able to get Velasco out in the open like this again? The rationality helped centre him and though he still wanted nothing more in the world than to return to London to see Q, Bond at least knew his priorities. He would do the job: do it right and do it quickly. Then he could go home.

 

_Home?_

 

Since when had Q’s flat that he most-of-the-time stayed at become _home_?

 

“Bond?” Eve said.

 

“Traffic,” Bond replied, as an excuse for his silence. He swallowed, trying to sort his thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order. “Did he take the day?”

 

“What do you think?” she asked.

 

“Send him home.”

 

The command came out in such a way that Bond heard Eve hesitate.

 

“I tried, but he said he wanted to stay on with you,” Eve said, sounding careful, as if deciding which words were the most appropriate. “Medical has given him permission to remain here until 1700.”

 

“I don’t care what permissions he has. Send. Him. Home,” Bond replied.

 

“In exchange for staying on today, he’s agreed to take off tomorrow entirely,” Eve continued, as if he had not spoken.

 

“That’s not good enough,” Bond said. “He’s going to run himself into the ground. He needs rest.”

 

“Strange, I wonder where he got this bad habit.”

 

“Eve, I’m serious.”

 

“I am, too.”

 

“It’s different.”

 

“How?” Eve asked.

 

“It’s _Q_ ,” Bond said. Emotion bled into his voice like ink on paper. He could not stop it despite his best intentions.

 

Thoughts of Vesper inundated his mind all over again and something sharp twisted in his chest at the thought of her. He swore he would never repeat that: never lay himself so bare and open before someone, never trust someone’s words and actions so implicitly, never love someone so selfishly, so _selflessly_ , again. But he had done it. He had let Q get so close in such a short amount of time, until he had infiltrated every aspect of Bond’s life. He should have been running in the other direction, but he felt a draw, a pull, a magnetism, and Bond knew he could not stop this, not now. He was in too deep, cared too much, and, Christ, this was not what he had been expecting months ago when he and Q had accidentally fallen into bed together after a mission gone wrong. It was supposed to be a one-time thing because they both needed to forget and Bond honestly preferred women, but that did not matter because it was not supposed to _last_. And then he found himself coming back to Q, two-three-five-ten times and by that point it felt too right to throw away, so Bond had not. Now over four months later, in the longest relationship Bond had _ever had_ , he was _happy_. It came at a price, because happiness meant weakness: insecurity, anxiety, irrationality...all of the distractions that could get him killed. It was with terrifying clarity that Bond realised this while simultaneously affirming that Q was absolutely worth it.  

 

“I’m not there...” Bond said, hating the way his voice quivered on the last word. Eve must have heard--it was impossible that she could have missed it--but she did not comment on the unspoken ... _and he’s always there for me_.

 

“I just made him take lunch and have a lie down,” she replied. “I’m going to check on him in about two hours. If he’s worse, I’ll take him home. In the meantime, focus on the mission.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Bond said, inching forward as traffic began to move.

 

“It’s just a reminder,” Eve replied, and he could hear her smiling. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after him.”

 

“Thank you,” Bond said, honestly meaning it, and rang off.

 

He spent the rest of the ride pointedly not worrying about Q, who was thankfully in better hands than he was previously. By the time he arrived at the orchard, Bond felt more level-headed, calm enough to carry out his orders without cocking everything up. Velasco’s rental car sat vacant a few metres from the Audi, parked outside the main gate of the property. As Bond approached, a man came out and told him in broken English that the tour had already left, but he could wait for the next one if he liked. In the meantime, he was allowed to walk about the main area behind the gates, where there sat a welcome house and garden for guests. Bond spent the time looking at the maps of the property, following the marked trail of the tour. He knew immediately that this would not be the best place to do much of anything: there were few stops on the trail, meaning Velasco would be a moving target, difficult to hit, and surrounded by civilians. In addition, the orchard and surrounding area were flat; Bond would not be able to get a good position from any direction. Even if he did want to risk a shot from the ground, there was no way he would be able to get the rifle in and out without being seen, suspected, or remembered.

 

Trashing his entire plan, Bond made an unobtrusive exit, resigning himself to sit through another forty minutes of gridlocked city traffic. He knew he could not follow Velasco any further without seeming suspicious; blond-haired, blue-eyed Englishmen were not common enough here. That meant he would have to finish the job in the hotel, which meant he would need help: video evidence erased, doors opened, and an established virtual alibi. Despite the Spanish government’s cooperation, it did not mean Bond could be careless. The less evidence left behind, the easier it would be for the authorities to sweep the incident under the rug. It also might keep a certain terrorist organisation from trying to exact revenge in their customarily unpleasant manner. Contrary to popular belief, Bond could go a few weeks without having something explode.

 

Out of habit, Bond made to contact Q, but stopped himself just in time.

 

Ever since Q had taken on the role as Quartermaster, Bond had come to rely on TSS more than before, finding the department actually competent and useful under Q’s direction. Bond had never willingly worked with them before Q (though he did have to admit they were helpful when he had been poisoned at the Casino Royale in Montenegro), but now he could not imagine completing a mission without them.

 

A year ago, Bond might have seen this as a form of weakness, using Q Division minions as a crutch to keep him alive when, really, that should have been solely his responsibility. The other Double-Ohs might see their services as a handicap, whereas Bond now saw them as an asset, Q most especially. The young Quartermaster took the guesswork out of things (told Bond to go right instead of left, instructed him to cut the blue wire instead of the red) made missions more convenient (there would always be a car or a train or a plane _just_ when Bond needed one) and Bond knew Q was always, without a doubt, watching his back. Bond trusted him completely, even more so since their relationship became more intimate, which is why it felt wrong to cancel the call and put the phone down. But Q needed the rest. If Bond asked for help, he would undoubtedly stay, pushing himself past his physical limits, again, which would only make him worse.

 

Bond stared straight ahead as he crawled through traffic, pointedly not thinking about Q going home alone tonight: ill and with no one to take care of him. Instead, he focused on the logistics for the mission, for killing a man, perhaps two, maybe even more, all while keeping thoughts of home and his lover at the very back of his mind. The less distracted he was, the faster he could finish the job and the sooner he could return to London.

 

 _Home_.

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

When Eve returned with a piping cup of Earl Grey approximately two hours later, she found Q exactly where she left him.

 

She took that as both a good and a bad thing. Good because it meant he slept, but bad because it signified Q might be sicker than she thought. He lay in a half-foetal position on the sofa and Eve might have believed it a peaceful sleep if not for the indications otherwise: the apparent flush of fever on his cheeks, the slight dampness at his brow, and the hard way he rasped for each breath. She quietly closed the office door behind her, set the mug of tea down on his desk, and approached the couch. There, she roused him with a gentle shake to his shoulder; he felt bird-thin under her palm. He did not come to with a jolt of surprise (like he had the few times prior she had accidentally woken him from one cat nap or another) but rather slowly, as if struggling to wake.

 

“Wake up, lazy bones,” she said fondly, sliding her hand over Q’s narrow shoulder to rub at his back encouragingly.

 

He groaned weakly and closed his eyes again, as if thoroughly disinterested in her. She smiled, albeit worriedly, able to feel the heat radiating from him, even through several layers of fabric. Like Bond, Eve had taken a liking to Q after Skyfall, but whereas Bond’s interest had been more romantic, Eve’s had taken a more platonic route. However, they both had one thing in common: a strange sort of protectiveness over the young Quartermaster. It had everything to do with the fact that he looked far too young for someone over the age of thirty and that he could not take care of himself if his life depended on it. Someone had to look out for him, and while Bond was gone, that duty now fell to Eve.

 

Q turned his head away from her, hiding his face in the flat pillow he had been using, and coughed harshly. Eve felt each one rack his small frame and winced in sympathy. Maybe Bond had been right telling her to bring Q home earlier. He could have gotten better rest at home in his own bed, at least.

 

“I brought you some tea,” Eve said, after he calmed down.

 

Q did not answer and lay still as he took loud, wheezing breaths for the next few minutes. She rubbed at his back again, until Q made a sound that came out like a sob, as if her touch pained him.

 

Retracting her hand, Eve said: “It’ll get cold.” Then, “Do you need help getting up?” After what seemed to be a long time, she saw him nod once into the pillow. Carefully, she manoeuvred her arm beneath his and slowly pulled him up into a sitting position, stopping once or twice when she felt Q begin to tremble weakly. The moment he was upright, Q leaned over his knees and began coughing again. His glasses, which had been resting atop his head, fell forward and onto his nose with one particularly violent motion. Once the fit passed, Q rubbed at his face with the sleeves of his cardigan, then straightened with obvious effort. His cheeks had flushed dark pink with the exertion and his breaths came out uneven and wheezing. Even behind his glasses, she saw that his eyelashes were wet.

 

“You look a mess,” Eve told him, reaching out to straighten his collar and do up his tie properly again. She did not even bother with his mussed up hair, knowing that the unruly strands were going to flip out every which way despite her best intentions. As she fixed him up, Q regarded her, glassy-eyed and half-conscious.

 

“Tea,” he croaked, succumbing to another round of painful coughing when he tried to clear his throat. The frequency had increased and the coughs sounded worse than they had that morning, like the infection had settled further into his chest. Eve made the decision then and there that she would not let Q stay until 1700, resolving to take him home as soon as possible. Bond would go on a rampage if he came back to find Q had pushed himself hard enough to wind up in the hospital.

 

“Here,” she said, handing the mug off to him, not letting go until she was sure Q had a secure grip on it. While he drank, Eve fired off an email to Sarah in Medical from her Blackberry, requesting the promised prescription be delivered immediately. She then sent a message to Tanner, explaining that she planned to be off property for the next hour and to take her messages. Q did not say anything about her rapid texting and Eve wondered if that was because he was preoccupied with his tea or because talking seemed painful. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

 

“What time is it?” he asked eventually, looking a bit more aware, but not by much.

 

“Time for you to go home,” Eve said, pocketing her phone.

 

“But, Bond...” Q began, but Eve interrupted him.

 

“Will be fine. Come on, now. Up you get,” she said, and made to take the near-empty mug from Q, but he held it back, just out of her reach. She could have easily taken it from him (his movements were lethargic and he did not have a strong grip on the cup in the first place) but she did not. “What?”

 

“More,” he said.

 

“More what?”

 

“Tea.”

 

“You’re a charmer when you just wake up,” Eve observed, smiling as she held out her hand politely for the mug.

 

“Please,” he amended, handing it to her. His hands were shaking and he looked so tired that she took pity on him.

 

“Of course,” she said, standing up. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

 

Eve made her way downstairs, avoiding the stares of the Q Division staff. They knew something was wrong; they were not idiots. Q never cancelled their team meetings (except for the one incident with the missing nuclear codes that caused quite a bit of hysteria, but thankfully not global destruction) and never secluded himself in his office for hours at a time without answering the phone or his email. It was also suspicious that Eve was back and getting Q a third cup of tea. Usually they only saw her catering to his caffeine addiction during the long evening hours when their work schedules undoubtedly overlapped. Then there was the rumours about Q going to Medical. Accounting had started a betting pool almost immediately following the conclusion of his appointment, and the odds seemed in Q’s favour that he would stubbornly (but effectively) finish running Double-Oh Seven’s mission before going home. Another large percentage pegged him to collapse from overwork before the day was out. The remaining numbers seemed to be clinging onto death via Bird Flu. Almost all departments were in (even Tanner might have put money down, but Eve could not be certain) which just proved that MI6 was hard up for entertainment and that they should all get out more often.

 

After making the tea to Q’s usual specifications, Eve returned to his office, only to find the Quartermaster at his desk, typing away, as if he were not feeling like the welcome mat on Death’s doorstep. He certainly looked the part.

 

“You had better be logging out,” Eve said, as she set the tea next to him.

 

“Not quite finished yet,” he replied distractedly. His words came out a bit gravelly, as if his throat hurt, but he looked a lot more aware than when she had left. Eve wondered if she had been played and regarded him suspiciously. No, he was obviously sick, she could tell by the way he held himself upright in a forced display of proper posture. He wanted to pass as normal, as _fine_ , but he looked a stone’s throw from a visit to the A&E.  

 

“You’re finished. You’re going home,” Eve answered, and began collecting up Q’s things from around the office.

 

“Just let me check the status of this mobile...” Q said, not looking up as he reached for his tea. The fingers of his right hand continued to type out strings of numbers without stopping, but Eve noticed that it was much slower than his usual rapid-fire pace. Definitely ill, then.

 

“No, now,” Eve said. Her determined expression faltered when there came a knock at the door, but then returned when she saw who stood behind it.

 

“Eve.”

 

“Sarah.”

 

They both smiled at each other; Eve heard Q groan behind her.

 

“Quartermaster,” Sarah said in greeting as she came into the room, her consonants clipped tightly to show her disapproval at seeing Q at his desk. She set her medical case down on the edge of Q’s work space with enough force that he cringed away from it. “I do hope you’re playing solitaire.”

 

“Of course,” Q replied, trying for an unruffled expression. But unlike the majority of people Q associated with, he did not make his living off of falsehoods, which made it blatantly apparent when he was lying. Eve had told him this once, and then begged him to never ever play cards for money.

 

“Because I wouldn’t want you to be in violation of our agreement,” Sarah continued, her tone warning. “Lest I be forced to remove you from duty.”

 

“Yes,” Q said carefully.

 

“You aren’t wearing your mask,” Sarah pointed out.

 

“I quarantined myself here so I didn’t think it necessary,” Q replied, and although his voice did not give out, Eve could hear the strain in it. And she noticed his jaw tensed at the end, as if fighting the urge to cough. Sarah must have noticed too, because the nurse looked at Eve as if to ask her permission, and Eve, at the end of her patience, gave it.

 

“Miss Moneypenny, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?” Sarah asked sweetly; Eve saw Q turn a colour reminiscent of sour milk at her tone.

 

“Of course,” Eve said, and left. She stood outside the door, but could not hear anything (not that she was trying to listen, but still) because of the soundproofed walls, much like the materials that were used in the construction of M’s office. To pass the time, she replied to Tanner’s email inquiring why she would be out of the office, delicately explaining the situation to keep Q’s reputation from any additional damage. By the time she was through with that and rearranging her afternoon schedule, Sarah emerged, her gait triumphant but the rest of her something else.

 

“How did it go?” Eve asked, and Sarah sighed.

 

“Well, it took a bit of coercion but he’s agreed to go home,” Sarah said.

 

“You’re a miracle-worker,” Eve replied, and meant it. She did not care if one had to resort to trickery or blackmail, as long as the job got done. One day, she and Sarah would have to sit down and discuss their tactics for dealing with bull-headed Double-Ohs and stubborn Quartermasters. Perhaps they should have traded notes long ago.

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sarah said. “His fever is up. It’s hovering round about 38 now. I recommend some paracetamol and rest. Also,” she paused and pulled out a white prescription bag from the medical case, “make sure that he takes this every six hours. It’s a cough suppressant mixed with a mid-grade narcotic so that he can actually get some sleep. I’m giving it to you because I’m not certain he won’t throw it away.”

 

“Wise choice,” Eve replied, taking it from her.

 

“Get him home and into bed. He’ll be fine in a few days,” Sarah said, and they bid their farewells before Eve turned to reenter the office. Q glared up at her with a stormy expression when she appeared, but then turned back to his computer without saying a word.

 

“Don’t give me that look,” Eve told him as she closed the door. “You’re being stubborn and you know it.”

 

“I’m perfectly capable of doing my job,” Q said. “You’re interfering.”

 

“ _I’m_ looking out for you,” Eve corrected him, dropping the prescription bag onto the desk in front of Q. He gave it only half a glance.

 

“I don’t need looking after, Miss Moneypenny,” Q replied, and the way he said it made her want to smack him. There was no one else around, excluding the need to be formal, and he was not teasing her like he sometimes did; this time he was patronising her. Q could use that tone all he liked with almost everyone else, who technically classified as his subordinates, but not with her. They held the same clearance level and pay grade and she thought they were _friends_ , for Christ’s sake. She clenched her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into her palm. She knew that she should not take it personally; Q was ill and defensive. People had been going behind his back all day, and she understood that it could be misconstrued as malicious, even if that was not the intention. But Eve was not going to back down, either. If Q wanted a drag-out fight, he would get one. Eve had a feeling she would win; she had nothing but stamina.

 

“You apparently do, letting yourself get like this,” Eve said, coming closer to his desk.

 

“Yes, because who would not voluntarily take on a debilitating illness?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t. Enlighten me.”

 

“You, not taking care of yourself.”

 

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Q said, and even though his voice sounded weak, it did not waver, nor did the intensity of his gaze, when it settled on her. She had only seen him react in such a way a handful of times, mostly when he was at the end of his rope with one of the Double-Oh agents (Bond) who would not listen to him. “Not you, not Bond, not anyone. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” The way he breathed out each word like it pained him said otherwise.

 

“Which is why you don’t eat or sleep unless someone forces you to?” Eve asked, raising an eyebrow. She saw the way Q’s pale fingers clenched at the edge of his desk and his jaw tightened.

 

“I have a demanding position,” Q replied, and each syllable sounded wet. She glared at him, and he at her, until Q ducked his head and began coughing pathetically into his elbow. Eve waited until he was finished and said:

 

“You’re killing yourself.”

 

“An over exaggeration.”

 

She looked at him, really looked at him, and felt something like understanding flitting at the corners of her awareness.

 

“What is this really about?”

 

Q leant back in his chair. They were almost the same age, but Q seemed so much like a child in that moment that Eve wanted to reach out and touch him, hold him, rock him to sleep like her mother had done for her. The silence stretched for a while, and then Q took a sharp breath that made him wince, but let it out without a sound.

 

“I have a lot to prove,” he said quietly.

 

“To whom?” Eve challenged, but with no harshness.

 

“To everyone. Do you know how many people think I shouldn’t have this job? Let’s start with the overwhelming majority in my own department and work our way up, shall we?” he replied, and it was with some venom, but not at her. She did not take it personally. Q was like a cornered, injured animal, lashing out at anyone who came too near.

 

“So this really is all about your pride?” Eve asked, and wanted to laugh. Of course Q would be more concerned with his professional rather than personal pride. He cared more for what people thought of his mind than anything else. It made sense that he would not care if people thought him weak and sickly, but would very much be offended if that affected their opinion of his work.

 

“My work is all I have,” Q replied, answering her question. Eve nodded at his admission, and then switched her tactics.

 

“Then think about this in terms of your work,” Eve said, and she knew she had his attention when he looked at her inquisitively. “Let’s say you have a brilliant machine that does brilliant work--don’t ask me what exactly: something with numbers and all that stuff that we need to keep MI6 from falling down around our ears. Anyway, this machine does everything that you need it to do perfectly and you have no problems with it--”

 

“Sounds implausible--” Q began.

 

“Let me finish,” Eve interrupted him, and he quieted. “So this brilliant machine does all this brilliant work and it’s doing so well that you stop taking care of it. You stop giving it system updates and stop greasing the gears and tightening the other bits and bots that need taken care of. What happens to it?”

 

“It malfunctions,” Q said, and then, upon recognizing her metaphor, gave her a bored look. “You are aware that humans are much different from machines.”

 

“What is the human body but not a machine?” Eve asked. “You have to take care of it in order to have keep it functioning. What I’m saying is, you were so focused on doing a brilliant job that you forgot all of the other things you need to _remain_ at top performance. This doesn’t make you any less dedicated; it shows you your limits, that’s all.”

 

He looked less than impressed. Eve changed her approach again.

 

“Fine, let’s look at a broader picture. On any given day, what’s the worst that could happen if you make a mistake?” she asked, and his glare somehow seemed sharper when glassy with fever.

 

“People die,” he said, in that precise, stoic way he used during the meetings with M, when something went wrong and civilians or agents were killed. It was the same tone he used every time forced to cite the words _collateral damage_ aloud for the record, ringing with a hollowness that only someone burdened with responsibility and guilt could produce. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly not at her. “And not the people we would like.”

 

“And what if your pride gets Bond killed?” she asked. It was like bringing down the hammer. Eve saw it immediately, the way her words had an effect on him. He looked at her as if he could not believe she asked such a thing--the thing that needed to be asked to get him to actually _listen to reason_. She should have hated herself, but she didn’t, even though she had Q scared and backed up against the metaphorical wall. It was where he needed to be.

 

And she pushed.

 

“What if you’re too slow? What if you just can’t think fast enough and something happens? Bond is relying on you. He trusts you, and given the state of things, I would say he trusts you more than anyone else. If you’re not your usual one hundred and ten percent, he could die. And all because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re not well. Do you want that on your conscience? Do you want everyone to see you as that person who can’t admit when he needs to relinquish control?”

 

Q took her attacks with a grace that Eve envied. He did not flinch away from her or try to refute her words. He took it and thought on what she had said, truly thought about it, and then when he had finished, looked at her earnestly.

 

“Bond trusts me,” Q said, swallowed, looked marginally pained at the thought. “You’re right...But that means he won’t... he won’t take help from anyone else. I...tried when we...when we first started out, because I thought I would be emotionally compromised. But I realised that... having that...connection made us both more careful. Just a little bit. He’s safer in my hands than anyone else’s. He might one day even start bringing back his equipment in one piece.” Q let out a laugh at the ridiculous thought, which ended in a painful sounding cough. When he stopped, he took in some wheezing, shallow breaths, and leaned back in his chair slowly. His fringe was damp with sweat. “But maybe it’s me... maybe I don’t trust anyone else...”  

 

“And that’s fine. You guys are disgustingly perfect for each other in that way,” Eve said, and Q smiled a half-smile at her, warming the air between them. But it was not over, not yet, and Eve continued softly: “But it comes down to this: he does trust you. He trusts you with his life. And I think that also means he trusts you enough to admit when you _can’t do something_. He won’t ever begrudge you for it, you know that.”

 

Q looked very helpless for a moment. Then he leant forward to rest his elbows on the desk, slid his fingers up under his glasses, and put his head into his hands. She could see every bone and vein beneath his near-translucent skin. It might have been a dramatic thought, but Eve could only think that he needed rest and food immediately, or else he would literally fade away.

 

“Do you think... Bond will work with R?” Q asked into his hands.

 

“I think he’ll do anything to get you to go home,” Eve replied honestly. Q made a sound that was not a laugh, but something close to it.

 

“He _hates_ R,” Q continued.

 

“But he’ll suffer through,” Eve replied.

 

“Maybe I should put someone else on it...” Q mused aloud, and Eve did not have to be in his head to know that he was thinking over a thousand thoughts per second at that very moment. Q was very good at over thinking things.

 

“R has the most training,” Eve said definitively.

 

“And hates Bond the most out of everyone I know...”  he added.

 

“Smart girl.”

 

“Not helpful, Eve.”

 

“Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out.”

 

“It’s my job--” he began, but Eve beat him to it.

 

“Yes, it is, but there is nothing wrong with asking for help,” she said firmly.

 

Q’s shoulders slumped and he let out a shallow breath that sounded more pained than all the others. When he dropped his hands and looked up at her, Eve saw just how conflicted he was about everything. She gave him her most encouraging smile, the one that Q had told her one night (over Thai takeaway and a bad film) could make men move mountains for her. He shook his head at her, as if knowing she had smiled like that at him on purpose.

 

“Well if that’s the case, my tea _is_ cold,” he said.

 

“I said I would help, that doesn’t mean you have free reign to be a cheeky little shit,” Eve replied and smirked at the expression of surprise on Q’s face at her swear. She saw him try to hold back, and he succeeded momentarily before succumbing to laugher, which turned into a bastardized hybrid of amusement and pain when he began coughing halfway through it. When it passed, Eve raised an eyebrow and gave him a look. He held up his hands.

 

“You win, I surrender,” he said.

 

“Oh, say it again. I want to make it my text tone.”

 

He gave her the finger.

 

“So professional,” Eve teased him, as she gathered the last of his things and set them on the sofa. Q did not reply, just shook his head at her and reached for the phone, paging R to ask her to come to his office. As Eve was folding the blanket left on the couch, she found the box of facial masks and threw it at Q, who narrowly avoided being hit in the face with said item.

 

“No,” he said, tossing it back at her.

 

“Remember you’re contagious. Wouldn’t want to get your second-in-command sick, too, would you?” She ignored his withering glare when she walked over to drop the box onto his desk. He grudgingly put the mask on, mumbling under his breath. When R knocked, Eve politely opened the door for her and then stepped out to give them privacy. In the meantime, she arranged for a car to meet them topside, as Eve was not about to forfeit her good parking space.

 

Not even ten minutes later, R emerged, looking even more confident than usual. Q had chosen her for the role after being named Quartermaster, not only because of her exquisitely high IQ, but also for her ability to get the work done correctly and efficiently. It did not mean that everyone liked her for it, not even Q, and especially the Double-Ohs, whom she bullied mercilessly for the smallest of infractions. But R at least respected Q’s authority it seemed, and that was enough for Eve.

 

“Miss Moneypenny,” she said with a curt nod as she passed.

 

“R,” Eve replied, watching her go. When she returned to Q’s office, she found him shrugging on his coat with a preoccupied expression. Even though he still wore the mask, Eve could tell.

 

“You don’t think there will be a mutiny, do you?” he asked.  

 

“You know R. She would probably kill them before they could even organise,” Eve replied.

 

“Hm. You’re right,” he agreed, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry. It will all be fine,” Eve said.

 

“Unless the power goes to her head...”

 

“Q...”

 

“Entirely possible, actually, considering her psychology...”

 

“No.”

 

“Think of all the damage she could do...maybe I should stay...”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Eve put her hands on her hips and Q backed down.

 

“Fine, fine,” he said, and even took up the prescription bag without Eve having to threaten him.

 

“I’ve called a car,” Eve told him, passing him his umbrella as they walked out the door.

 

“Thank you,” Q replied, turning off all the lights before closing the door and locking up for the evening. When he started in the direction of the bullpen, she followed, past the curious gazes of the Q-Division employees peeking up over the walls of their cubicles. They took a lift to the main floor and it was only when Eve continued after Q towards the front doors that he looked at her. The white mask made him seem even more washed out than before; the bruises under his eyes were deep and dark. “I’m not going to double back around.”

 

“I know,” Eve said, “because you know I would make your life unpleasant if you did.”

 

“Yes, well, there’s that,” Q replied and then coughed a bit, clearing his throat. The next words came out a bit stronger. “You don’t need to walk me to the car, is what I’m saying.”

 

“Oh, I’m not just walking you to the car,” Eve said. Q made an annoyed sound at her insinuation.

 

“I don’t need a chaperone to take me home.”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Eve, this is going too far.”

 

“Doctor’s orders.”

 

“Ridiculous.”

 

He still walked out the door when she held it open for him, and got into the waiting car at the kerb. They did not bother with the umbrella, as the rain was light and misty. She gave the address to the driver, then flipped the divider screen to give them some privacy. Q pointedly did not say anything as the car pulled out into traffic, staring hard out the window. Eve could tell he was still trying very hard to not seem affected, but his strength had all but depleted in fighting against the needs of his own body. He lasted for only a few minutes; by the time they passed Trafalgar Square, Q had slumped against the window and dozed off. Eve watched him sleep for a few moments, then picked up her Blackberry and fired off a message to Bond to keep him updated.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

  
**Messages**   +44 20 xxxx xxxx **Create New**

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1545_

 

His fever is worse.

I’m taking him home.

EM

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1549_

 

 

How much worse

JB

 

Nothing to worry about.

EM

 

He’ll be fine. I’ll even tuck

him into bed for you.

EM

 

 

Tell me

JB

 

Focus.

EM

 

I’ll take care of things.

EM

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1552_

 

 

Thank you

JB

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

When they arrived outside of Q’s flat, it was still drizzling outside. Eve flipped down the privacy window and told the driver to meet her in the same place in forty-five minutes. Then she shook Q gently awake and coaxed him out of the vehicle. He was surprisingly agreeable to doing what she asked, still half-asleep, and went on autopilot for the first few steps without regarding her. It was only when he began searching through his bag for his building keys that he must have realised she followed him.

 

“I think I can manage from here,” he rasped out.

 

“Yes, because you don’t look like you’re about to keel over or anything,” Eve replied, taking over for him.

 

She found the keys buried at the bottom of his bag, located the building key on the first try, and opened the door. The place was old, but well kept, and Eve would have considered it _nice_ if not for the fact that the lifts were out of order and they had to take the stairs. Any other time, Eve might not have minded, as she was not adverse to exercise, but making that trek with someone suffering from a chest cold was a completely different story.

 

At the landing of the third storey, they had to stop, because Q could barely breathe. For once, Eve did not know what to do, helpless to do anything but watch as Q wheezed desperately for air, hunched over and clutching at the railing until his knuckles turned white. The rest of the journey afterwards was just as painful to watch as they made their way slowly to the top floor. By the time they reached it, Q abandoned whatever was left of his pride and took Eve’s proffered arm for the length of an obscenely long hallway. At his door, he took the keys from her, put one in and turned it, then removed it to put in another, which he turned the opposite way. Eve heard the locks click, a final one giving way only after Q let the peephole perform a retina scan. He pushed inside and immediately turned to disengage a secondary security system. Eve supposed that, as MI6’s Quartermaster and the lover of a Double-Oh, it could not hurt to be overly cautious.

 

“Nice digs,” Eve commented, closing the door as she stepped into the flat. She had never been to Q’s place before. They always met somewhere public, or sometimes briefly at hers for a film and dinner. Even among friends in MI6, she supposed secrecy was something that just happened naturally.

 

The space reflected Q well. It was wide and spacious, with plenty of windows, but (her trained mind supplied) not directly facing any other buildings, making it nigh impossible for a sniper to get a good shot. Everything was streamline modern in the kitchen and the living space a balance between aesthetically pleasing and comfortable. There was very little clutter, but a great many books. Wherever there were no windows, there were bookshelves lined with volumes of all sorts of subjects, ranging from computer programming to foreign languages. Surprisingly there was very little tech; the most she saw was the flat screen television mounted on the wall above a handsome piece of furniture that housed several game systems and DVDs behind glass doors. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor.

 

“Thanks,” Q said from behind her, not bothering to hide his exhaustion any longer. He dropped the unused umbrella in a stand behind the door as he toed his shoes off. Eve watched his slow movements as he then proceeded to take off his coat and bag to hang on the rack on the wall. The fact that he did not immediately reach for his mobile or tablet proved that Q was most certainly not well, and far past the point of trying to say otherwise.

 

“Okay, to bed with you,” Eve said.

 

“Shower first,” Q said weakly, and made for the bedroom. Eve followed him, poking her head into rooms along the way. She found a lab (complete with all the tech she had been looking for, like the server towers, computers, and tool kits) and a handsome-sized bathroom. At the end of the hallway sat the master bedroom. Q’s reaction to her sudden presence was slow, but when he saw her there, it was as if he did not know exactly what to say. And Eve could see why. The bedroom was a private place, not only for him, but for who Q was when he was with Bond. She could see the traces of him in the room, but did not let her eyes linger for too long in any one place.

 

“You know,” he said, looking at her pointedly, “I can manage this on my own.”

 

“You sure?” Eve asked, leaning against the door frame with a little smirk. “Imagine how jealous Bond would be if I told him I washed your back for you.”

 

Q just shook his head, amused at the insinuation.

 

“I mean... you don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine,” Q clarified.

 

“So I get you all the way home and leave, only to have you fall in the shower and drown? Not likely,” Eve said, then pointed in the direction of the bathroom before he could protest. “Go on.”

 

Surprisingly, he obeyed, gathering some clothes. It was only when she heard the shower turn on that Eve stepped into the bedroom.

 

Although it was infringing on their privacy, Eve felt curious. She had not said anything to Q, but Bond had been different the past few months. Not quite tame, but not as reckless either. He seemed more collected, calmer, and there were less incidents where he came to MI6 looking like hell, hung-over, and smelling as if he had slept on a bar floor all night. Eve had half a mind to say Bond was _happy_. There were traces of that happiness everywhere she looked, and it made her smile.

 

The first place that drew her attention was on the wall, where the wardrobe doors stood open. Eve could clearly see all of Q’s Oxfords and cardigans next to Bond’s suit jackets and trousers. At the bottom, a pair of old Converse and other nondescript footwear settled unobtrusively next to Bond’s dress shoes and workout trainers. She noted that there were several too many pillows on the unmade bed for one person, and that on one side of the bed the pillows were laid out vertically while on the other, more horizontally. Just as with their preference for which side of the bed they slept on, both bedside tables had characteristics of their owners’ personality. The side with the horizontal pillows had to be Q’s, because there was a lamp, an alarm clock, and two chargers: one for a mobile phone and the other for a tablet.  The other side--Bond’s side--also had a lamp, as well as a pair of familiar silver cufflinks, a half-glass of water, and also a small stack of military fiction novels. Eve had a sudden mental picture of the two of them, sometime early in the morning, in which Bond sat reading his novels quietly while waiting for Q to wake. Or maybe it was the other way around, with Q working on some project on his tablet while Bond lay on his side, curled up against him with an arm round his waist.

 

Even with the images in her mind’s eye only, Eve thought them too private for her analysis, and quickly left the bedroom. She kept her footsteps quiet as she crept by the bathroom door and back into the living room. Once there, she went to foyer and pulled out the cough medicine from Q’s bag. She read the instructions, then went into the kitchen to tear off the plastic wrapper around the lid, which doubled as a tiny measuring cup. The instructions said to take with food, but it would be hard enough to get Q to take the medicine, let alone eat something, so if she could at least get him to do one, she would call it a win. Unfortunately, the cough suppressant would do nothing for his fever. Eve resolved to search Q’s medicine cabinet for some Panadol when he was through in the bathroom. In the meantime, she looked for a drinking glass.

  


To do this, Eve opened and closed cabinets, once again easily identifying traces of both Bond and Q in what she found. She knew Q did not drink coffee, and yet he had a percolator and coffee grounds in the house. She knew Bond did not drink tea, and yet there sat a variety on the shelves, all from the foreign locations Bond had recently visited. She also knew that Q did not cook (he had mentioned it several times during their lunchtime escapes from MI6), so the overabundance of foodstuffs and spices had to be Bond’s doing.

 

The domesticity of it made it seem as if they had been living together for years instead of only such a brief while. If anyone saw the state of their bedroom, they might think them married. The only people who were blind to the whole thing were Bond and Q, both stubbornly fighting the fact that their arrangement meant something more. Perhaps Bond might be closer to realising it than Q, but Eve could not be certain. Either way, the both of them were running as far away from commitment as they could, it seemed, even when commitment appeared to be doing them both a world of good.

 

Eve found a glass just as she heard the tap switch off in the bathroom. The door opened shortly afterward, and when Eve peeked around the corner to glance down the hallway, she saw Q towel drying his hair as he shuffled into the bedroom. She filled the glass with water, picked up the cough medicine, and then followed behind him.

 

The bathroom was heavy with moisture when she entered; the mirrors had fogged up entirely. As she went searching for medicine, Eve came across the two toothbrushes on the sink and a shared tube of toothpaste in the cabinet. It sat beside Bond’s familiar brand of aftershave. Upon further investigation, she found an electric razor in the right hand drawer, which lay next to a handsome case that--upon snooping further--Eve found to be Bond’s cherished straight edge blade. The more she looked, the more she found, solidifying the fact that they were, in fact, a couple, and a rather committed one at that, if the state of their toiletries and closet were anything to go by.

 

It did not take long to find some paracetamol, as Q seemed to keep it in excess (most likely to deal with the tension headaches MI6 undoubtedly heaped on him) and she managed to balance all the medication with the glass of water with dexterity as she left. She found Q sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair standing up in all directions. He was dressed in flannel pyjama bottoms that did not even try to match his shirt. The towel lay neglected on the foot board. He coughed weakly as he pulled on a pair of socks, sounding breathless when he finished. After, he straightened up, Q began clumsily working at the buttons of his shirt until Eve swatted his hands away to help him. Beneath the undone collar, Eve spotted an impressive love bite on Q’s right clavicle and she could not help but smirk. Bond _did_ seem the possessive type.

 

Once she had finished with the buttons, Eve realised that the shirt was actually quite over-sized. She recognized it then as the shirt that had been lying over the footboard, which, if she recalled, had been the same shirt Bond had worn to MI6 during his debriefing after the Syrian mission. It drowned Q’s small frame like wearing a blanket, but Eve had a feeling that was the point. She wondered if Q always wore Bond’s clothes when he was gone. Maybe it was comforting to have him close when he was so far away. It was testament to how much Q missed him, but without any verbal admission of that fact; Eve had a feeling that had he not been ill, she would never have seen this quiet display of affection.

 

She cleared her throat to get his attention--he had started to doze off again while sitting up--and held out the Panadol and water.

 

“Take this. It’ll help your fever.”

 

He did. She then poured out the appropriate measure of medicine into the plastic cup and handed it to him. Q looked at the pink-orange mixture suspiciously.

 

“Drink it,” she instructed.

 

He did and then made a face, draining the rest of the glass of water to chase the taste away.

 

“That was vile,” he complained as he set the empty cup onto the bedside cabinet; she ignored him.

 

“Into bed,” Eve said, pulling back the blankets.

 

“Please spare me some dignity and do not tuck me in.”

 

She did anyway, despite his grumbling. Between the illness and now the medication, he was in no state to fight her off. Once he was settled, she took up the glass and filled it from the tap in the bathroom. When she returned, she set it on the nightstand. Then Eve set out closing the blinds and drawing the curtains over the windows to ensure Q actually managed a good rest. As she did this, Q turned over on his side, back to Bond’s half of the bed, and coughed feebly into the pillow.

 

“Where’s my mobile?” Q asked hoarsely, when he was through.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Eve replied as she pulled the duvet up over his shoulder.

 

“Mutiny...” he mumbled, eyes already closed.

 

“It will be fine,” she assured him, and removed his glasses. She set them next to the bottle of cough suppressant, between the alarm clock and the glass of water, so everything would be within easy reach if he needed them.

 

“Hmm...” he sounded doubtful. She petted through his damp hair. Her car would be there soon, but she felt guilty leaving him. It must have been how Bond felt; maybe that was what she heard in his voice ever since he left. He felt responsible for Q, that was for certain, but even more so, he _wanted_ to feel responsible for Q. Eve had a feeling Bond would unflinchingly burn the entire city down if it meant he could come home tonight. If that did not scream love, Eve did not know what did.

 

“If Bond’s not back in the morning, I’ll come check on you,” Eve told him.

 

“I’ll be fine on my own...juss need to sleep...” he replied, and she couldn’t help but smile at his slur. The medicine already started taking effect, but Q fought it enough to add: “And...tell Bond... tell him to stay away for a few days... “

 

“You think he’ll listen? It’s Bond we’re talking about,” Eve said. “And he’s been so worried about you, you know.”

 

“And he shouldn’t... it’s not... _we’re_ not... “ Q stopped and sighed before starting again. “Juss... tell him to bugger off, would you?”

 

“I make no promises,” Eve replied, ruffling his hair. He grumbled something unintelligible at the gesture. “Go to sleep.” Unsurprisingly, he offered no resistance, and within the span of only a few moments, he was unconscious. She listened to his even breaths for a few minutes before making her escape, pulling the door halfway closed behind her. She went for her mobile as she neared the front door.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

  
**Messages** +44 20 xxxx xxxx **Create New**

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1637_

 

Alarm code?

EM

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1640_

 

 

16180339887

JB

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Eve plugged the numbers into the alarm system and then exited the flat. Behind her, the door automatically locked. As she made for the stairwell, Eve deleted the message from her history for security purposes. A new message appeared almost immediately; she knew Bond would not be able to resist.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

  
**Messages**   +44 20 xxxx xxxx **Create New**

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1641_

 

 

How is he

JB

In bed where he belongs

EM

 

 

Good

JB

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Eve debated if she wanted to continue the conversation as she walked down the stairs. It might be meddling if she did, but who knew if those idiots would ever come to terms with things if someone did not intervene. A little push never hurt anyone; Q had proved that today. Sometimes there were things people just needed to hear.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

  
**Messages**    +44 20 xxxx xxxx **Create New**

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1644_

He says to not come

by for a few days

EM

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012, 1645_

 

I think he doesn’t want you

to get sick

EM

 

It’s kind of cute

EM

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1646_

 

 

And it’s not going to happen

JB

 

I know

I told him so

EM

 

Also, did you know

he wears your clothes

when you’re away?

EM

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1649_

 

I think he misses you

EM

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Bond’s end remained silent for a long while, even after Eve had gotten into the MI6 car and was on her way back to work.

 

She thought about Q and Bond, so unlikely a pair, and yet surprisingly compatible. They were both hardworking, dedicated to MI6, and (most of the time) liked to see things explode. Where they were different, they respected and complemented one another: technology working in tandem with tradition. It was, as Bond had once said to her, a brave new world. Maybe because of this, they had to try it once, just to get it out of their systems, but then it was too good to let go of so easily. Both of them would be too full of pride to admit it, so they did not.

 

Instead they made up this little agreement of theirs that Eve did not have to know all the particulars of to understand: it was not a real relationship, not really, because in their eyes, it could not be. Bond saw himself once bitten, twice shy, and older, damaged, unable or unwilling to give up the last bit of himself to someone else in fear of being abandoned again. Q was young, but not naive. Maybe he had been hurt before, maybe not, but he could calculate probability and percentiles in his head faster than anyone she knew, and Eve knew he would be thinking about the endgame in all of this. It was a rare thing that a Double-Oh made it long enough at MI6 to voluntarily retire. And even if Bond did reach that age, it would be a cold day in Hell that he resigned for that reason. The chances of him dying out in the field went up each time Q sent him on another mission, and Q knew it, and maybe that was why he was holding back, digging his heels into the ground so hard against this thing that kept drawing them together. He was trying to save himself heartache, but it would come to him regardless.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

  
**Messages**        +44 20 xxxx xxxx **Create New**

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1701_

 

You should tell him

EM

 

You need to tell him

EM

 

 

_Nov 15, 2012 1702_

 

Don’t cock it up

EM

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Despite the radio silence, Eve knew he got every message. It was now waiting to see if he would act on them.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Measurements for the Americans  
> 37.5 degrees C = 99.6 degrees F  
> 38 degrees C = 100.4 degrees F  
> stone = 14 lbs so a half stone = 7lbs; Q lost almost half a stone, which I put at about 5lbs
> 
> Trivial Note:  
> Q’s alarm code is the bastardized version of the Golden Ratio (which when phi represents the golden ratio, its abbreviated value is 1.6180339887...)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q gets worse and Bond takes on a nursemaid role for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extensive delay everyone. I had a lot of this written, but when I added Moneypenny into the last chapter, I had to add her here too, and then I adjusted things because of it. Added scenes took some away. Still not sure if the flow is good or not...I can't really tell any more... Also, apologies for OOC!Bond in this chapter.
> 
> And just so everyone knows that I wasn't (completely) slacking, in the time that I haven't updated, I've been bumped to almost-full-time at work, taken final exams, prepped (sort of) for my thesis, taken ill twice, interviewed for a new job, and moved residences! I hope that the length of this chapter (18,000+ words?) makes up for things....!
> 
> Much love for all your wonderful reviews, favourites, bookmarks, everything xx

It had to be some kind of record, even for him.

Never in all of his years had Bond finished a job early, cleanly, and not been shot at or blown something to high heaven. The simplicity of it was actually kind of astounding, so much that Bond felt off-kilter when it was over. Velasco was dead (and his wife taken away to a nearby hospital for shock, after finding him in a pool of his own blood in the hotel room bathroom) as well as four of his six hired guards (the other two had been with Velasco’s wife during the incident, which had been fortunate for them, in Bond’s opinion). Rodriguez had been taken into police custody for questioning (after Bond’s special form of interrogation, of course, because who really needed their thumbs in working order anyway?) and all the incriminating evidence was back in the boot of the Audi beneath the spare tyre.

 

It left Bond with nothing to do but drink from the mini bar and report in to HQ.

 

As much as he hated R--ever since he overheard her saying to another TSS minion that she should have been first in line for the Quartermaster position because she was the most qualified in the department--she at least knew the job. The security feeds were clean and Bond’s alibi was tight. Bond did not want to admit it, but R had proved her competence; she performed just as well as Q, though Bond would much rather have his lover’s familiar tenor on the other end of the comms any day. He gave the details over that he had acquired from Rodriguez and promised that Q-Branch would have first dibs on the flashdrive of information Bond had stolen from Velasco’s computer. Getting the intel from Velasco had not been a stated mission objective, but Bond knew how much Q liked it when he brought back presents of “real” worth; if it could be used for additional intelligence gathering or blackmail, it was something Q wanted.

 

Apparently, R shared this sentiment, and she even went so far as to praise him for a successful mission without sounding like she had been forced to swallow rusty nails.

 

After he rang off with R, Bond sat down on the edge of the hotel mattress with his drink and looked at his mobile. He scrolled through Eve’s messages again, for what must have been the hundredth time.

 

_You should tell him._

 

_You need to tell him._

 

Bond’s thumb hovered over the keypad, but he did not know how to reply, or if he should. With the mission over, Bond could finally focus on what he had pushed to the back of his mind since that afternoon. It was dangerous territory for him, for Q, and for whatever kind of relationship they had. The both of them knew they were getting in deeper than they had initially intended. If they tipped over that line of _just a bit further_ , it could either end up becoming something wonderfully good or devastatingly bad.

 

Without knowing the outcome and its consequences for certain, they had been toeing that line in fear of crossing it, balancing on the precipice, holding on to what they already knew was good, not wanting to fuck it up with such a risk. But a small part of Bond wanted it to happen, because it might just be better than what they had now. Better than even what Bond had in the past. With Vesper, there had been a sort of carefree beauty in loving her, but at a sacrifice to his work (that he loved) and his country (which he loved even more). But with Q, it was-- _would_ be--different. They both loved their jobs and were loyal to England, so there would be no need for Bond to change, to _choose_ , because Q and country were one in the same. Things could stay exactly as they were in that respect, while other aspects of their relationship could change. Maybe Q would allow for Bond to take him out to dinner at a nice restaurant from time to time or to see a show. Maybe the two of them could take a holiday together somewhere warm during the winter. Maybe Bond could move the small remainder of his things to the flat...

 

Bond stopped his train of thought right there.

 

He sounded so _hopeful_ , so optimistically out of character that he did not know what to think of himself. Since when did he want something more than the ideal, purely-physical relationship? Was he going soft in his old age, at the cusp of retirement and thinking, just maybe, he might have another forty good years to live and that he did not want to live alone? Or was it something more? Had he begun to appreciate the things he never did before: a warm bed to come home to at night and someone to wake up to each morning who genuinely wanted him to be there? He could recall with perfect clarity the crisp smell of the sheets on their bed and the feeling of soft, even breaths against his chest and the beautifully open look of unguarded contentment in Q’s eyes when he woke and saw Bond there with him. The mornings were his favourite, because nothing existed in the world except for them, and Q could say just as much with his eyes as he could his mouth, and Bond thought him more brilliant and breathtaking because of it.

 

_You should tell him._

 

Bond stared at the words on the screen and wondered how he could. How could he put all of it into words? And if he could, what would it even mean if Q reciprocated? What would it all be for if Bond were to admit to everything and then be killed?

 

_You need to tell him._

 

What would it all be for if he did not say a word and died without Q ever knowing?

 

_Don’t cock it up._

 

Bond frowned at the phone. He was always cocking things up, it was what he did. The old M knew that better than anyone. His frown deepened as he thought of her, because then it made him think again of Vesper, and the recollection of their deaths made guilt gnaw at him unpleasantly. And then it was inevitable that he thought of Q meeting an untimely end, and _Christ_ , his vision tunneled a bit and he forgot how to breathe. Bond could not do it again; he could not let someone else he cared for die because of him.

 

But what could he do? Even if he went back to the flat that they shared and took up all his things, he could not remove himself from Q’s life entirely. They worked together and neither one of them was the kind of person to leave the job he loved just to avoid awkwardness and the hurt that would undoubtedly accompany all of it. Bond finished off his drink and got up to pour himself another, throwing it back without tasting anything but bitterness. He did not want to end things, not when he finally allowed himself to feel needed, _wanted_ , again for the first time in a long time. He did not want to end things, not when Q looked at him like he did in the mornings and smiled in a way that was just for Bond and no one else. He did not want it to be the end, not when he finally had some place to call home, someone to come home _to_ , who wanted, challenged, scolded, _kissed_ him like Q did.

 

Bond felt a short, joyous little laugh escape him as he imagined inciting Q’s ire over the entire thought process: _You just think everything is about you, don’t you?_ Q, who would probably get that look he did when offended, which Bond saw often times after bringing back broken equipment. He knew exactly where to kiss Q to get that line to disappear from between his eyebrows and some might not consider that much, but to Bond it was like knowing one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Q did not let just anyone in to become privy to his secrets. Bond had worked long and hard for that privilege.

 

_You should tell him._

 

_You need to tell him._

 

Eventually, he gave up on thinking and dropped the mobile onto the duvet beside him. He finished his drink, but did not go back for more. It had become easier to do so in the past few months: to stop and not give in to the urge to drown himself in drink in a desperate attempt to numb reality. It was the same with the sometimes-mission-related, sometimes-random sex with strangers he met in hotel bars and lobbies. Surprisingly, both of these habits had not been hard to break, but the overall switch to mostly-sobriety and almost-complete monogamy did not happen immediately, of course. Bond had begun to taper off both vices a few months ago. He told himself it had nothing to do with Q and the disappointment Bond heard in his tone, saw in the tense line of his jaw, when he would come home from the field in pieces smelling of sex and with his mood sullen from alcohol. Q never asked him to stop and never would, but Bond did anyway, because he knew Q did not deserve it. Out of everyone in the world, Q was the last person to deserve it. So Bond had put an end to getting overly drunk at the same time he stopped himself from sleeping with every pretty face that crossed his path. He started thinking more about Q and how to make him happy, how to treat him well, because that was something Q deserved more than anything else.

 

Things had changed, yes, but not in a bad way, and it made Bond start thinking again--getting _hopeful_ \--right after he had finally made himself stop.

 

He distracted himself by arranging his own flight back to London--a testament to how much he desired to be home when he could have coerced someone else to do the job for him--and tried to, but did not sleep that night. The police were still outside and roaming the halls, collecting evidence and statements and overall making a scene. Bond lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling as he listened to the commotion, missing the mattress he shared with Q, thinking that the sheets did not smell right and the building did not sound the same as that tiny flat in London.

 

The noise died down around three in the morning, but Bond still did not sleep. He got up at five and checked out of the hotel, dropped the Audi off with their contact at the rental car agency, and went straight to the airport. There, he boarded the earliest aeroplane out of the country and spent the duration of the short flight staring at the front page of _The Times_ , not reading a word of it as he tapped his fingers anxiously on the armrest.

 

Once back in London, Bond flagged down a cab and took the roundabout way to the flat, hoping that the frenzied morning commute would be all the security measures he needed to avoid a tail. Not one to take chances, Bond hopped off a few blocks from Q’s building and braved the rain to take the back roads home, entering from the rear emergency exit instead of the front. The lifts were still not in working order, forcing Bond to use the stairs. At least no one was there to witness the eager way he took to running up the steps towards the upper level. After the door ran through its usual authentication routine and Bond disarmed the system once inside, he let out a sigh that felt less haggard and more relieved than anything.

 

_Home._

 

Bond removed his soaked jacket and hung it next to Q’s behind the door, then he slipped out of his wet shoes and left them on the mat to dry. Shouldering his luggage, Bond immediately made his way towards the bedroom. Around him, the flat sat quiet and still, and the fact that few things had been disturbed since he left two days prior told him that Q had barely been home. Bond noted that nothing stood out of place in the kitchen and since there were no takeaway containers piled in the bin, that meant Q had not eaten. Even more worrisome was the lack of a kettle cooling on the back hob, which alerted Bond to the fact that Q had not yet been up at his habitual hour to make tea. Q had to be sick if it was quarter to nine and he still had not had his first cuppa.

 

The bedroom door stood halfway open, and when Bond came inside, he found it cold and dark with the drapes pulled tightly closed. The only light came from the red numbers on the alarm clock next to the bed. Bond set down his bag softly near the wardrobe and removed his Walther from its holster to place it into his bedside drawer silently, not wanting to rouse Q with a ruckus. But he did want to make sure he was alright, and so Bond turned on his bedside lamp and moved quietly over to Q’s side of the bed to sit down on the edge of the mattress.

 

He pulled back the duvet slightly so that he could see the other man; Q looked impossibly young when asleep, but even more so when ill. There was a fragility there not present during Q’s waking hours. He was the Quartermaster of MI6: the person agents depended on with their lives and British citizens entrusted to protect their freedom. There was no room for softness when he was running Double-Ohs on their missions or virtually fighting against terrorist cells around the world; Q had to be a pillar of strength, someone with a quick mind and a borderline-cold professionalism. It was the only way to get things done, after all, and Bond respected him immensely for that. But then there were moments like these, when Q looked so very small and vulnerable that a single touch might break him entirely. It made Bond want to put his arms around Q and hold onto him, _protect_ him, and never let go.

 

Instead, Bond restrained himself, content to bring his hand to his lover’s hair, where he ran his fingers through the slightly sweat-dampened locks. He could feel the warmth of a low-grade fever radiating from Q’s skin despite the cool temperature of the room. A worried frown tugged at his lips, but it retreated when Q stirred a bit under his palm. It took some time for Q to wake, and even so, he only managed about halfway. His eyes were dark with sleep beneath his lashes.

 

“James...” he said, blinking slowly as he came into awareness. When Q recognised him, he slid a hand from beneath the blanket, seeking Bond’s. Hot fingers pressed weakly against his palm. Bond raised them to his lips and kissed them tenderly; Q hummed appreciatively. “You’re back...” he murmured, and then smiled in that sleepy way he sometimes did in the mornings: so open and unguarded and innocently _happy_ that Bond could not help but smile back. He smiled even though Q’s voice sounded broken up from coughing and he looked washed out and his hand felt so, so _small_ that for once in his life, Bond did not know what to _do_. He could kill a man without blinking and disable a bomb with his eyes closed and jump out of burning helicopters and cars and planes, but this was different. This was _Q_ , who needed him but would probably never say it, and Bond wanted to take care of him but did not know how. He had never been in this sort of situation before; all attempts to care for himself previously did not count, as they involved too much alcohol and very little rest. And rest seemed just what Q needed, if the way he fought his closing lids was any indication.

 

“Yeah, I’m--” Bond paused for a moment, but then thought it would hurt nothing to say it aloud, and continued, “--home. Sorry for waking you,” Bond said quietly. keeping up the motion with his hand. He knew Q liked the attention to his hair almost as much as Bond liked giving it, which was why he indulged in the moment, keeping his fingers as soft and soothing as his voice. “Go back to sleep, okay?”

 

“Mmm...” came Q’s soft reply; Bond barely heard him over the rain falling against the window pane. Then he took a sharp, pained sort of breath and his cold fingers clenched at Bond’s with surprising strength. “Spain?” He sounded almost lucid for a moment.

 

“The mission’s been completed,” Bond said, watching as Q struggled to open his eyes, but could not quite manage it. “I’ll tell you about it later.” It seemed to appease him, at least momentarily, until Q squeezed Bond’s hand again.

 

“You’re okay?” he asked, his words running together.

 

“I’m alright. I didn't even get shot at,” Bond replied, and then leaned over to kiss his temple. Q made another contented sound at the gesture. “Sleep,” Bond said again. He thought that Q might fight him, but it took only a few moments before Q relaxed completely under his palm, his breaths raspy, but even. Bond stayed with him for a few moments before relinquishing Q’s hand to stand up.

 

This was uncharted territory for him; he had never been charged with taking care of someone like this before. And as someone who rarely fell ill, Bond was unsure how to proceed. He knew that _rest_ was at the top of the list, which Q had finally succumbed to, and that _medicine_ followed shortly thereafter. A quick once-over of the orange bottle on the bedside cabinet informed him that Q had at least taken some of the cough suppressant, so both of the things Bond knew for certain had already been done.

 

He started to pace, then stopped, and gripped at the foot board with both hands as he tried to think of something else he could do. He hated feeling useless from so far away, but it was even worse standing right there in their bedroom, unable to do _anything_. He tried to think about the last time he had been sick from something that was not heat exhaust or the result of an infected wound, but could only recall a hazy few times: once at boarding school, perhaps twice in the Navy, but all those times he had been very much alone. The one, vague memory he had of being sick and cared for was as a child. It was sometime before his parents died and included a stifling number of blankets and a seemingly-endless supply of hot broth. _Keeping warm_ must have been another important factor. Bond pulled a spare blanket from the wardrobe and draped it over the top of the duvet, shrouding Q’s side of the bed in the heavy blue thermal. Q shifted beneath it, but did not wake again.

 

Thinking that it would be best to let Q sleep a little more, Bond took up some clothes and left for the bathroom. On the way, he knocked the thermostat up a few degrees to get it a bit warmer in the flat. Then he took a long, hot shower, trying to wash away the anxiety that had built up over the past few days. In the process, he accidentally used Q’s soap instead of his own, and although he did not mind the subtle scent of mint, Bond much preferred it on Q’s skin than his own.

 

While drying off, Bond heard Q coughing, harsh and wet, from the next room. He quickly tied off the towel around his waist and went to check on him. Q still lay on his side facing the curtained window, his back to the door, and had apparently made no move to get up after Bond had left. His coughing died down after a moment, but Bond waited in the doorway until he was sure that Q had fallen back asleep. He then quietly returned to the bathroom, dressed in sweats and a tee and brought his laundry into the bedroom, where he silently deposited the clothing into the basket specifically to be sent out to the drycleaners.

With one last glance at Q’s sleeping form, Bond crept out of the room, closing the door almost completely behind him. He went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Then he began rummaging through the cabinets in search of some kind of canned soup or broth to force on Q when he woke. By the time the coffee finished brewing, Bond had found nothing in their sad excuse for a pantry, and gave up entirely. Takeaway existed for a reason and if he became desperate, there was a Tesco’s right down the street.

He was just pouring himself a cup when he heard the bedroom door open, followed by the sound of soft and slightly unsteady footsteps coming down the hall. Q appeared from around the corner, sleepy-eyed, sans glasses, and with his hair a wild mess of dark curls; he wore nothing but one of Bond’s button-ups. The sight would normally put Bond in the sort of mood to bend him over the nearest flat surface, but it was not the usual Q who greeted him at the door after a mission with his wicked little come-hither smile. It was a different Q, so pale and thin that it looked like he might shatter; the Q who began coughing so hard into the crook of his elbow that he swayed on his feet. Bond immediately put his arms around his lover before he could fall, supporting Q through it and then after, when it seemed he barely had enough energy to stay upright.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Bond asked him, gently moving his hand up and down Q’s back as the other man leaned against him. The temperature of his skin seemed to burn right through the thin layer of fabric of Bond’s shirt. He stilled his hand and laid his palm flat across the back of Q’s too-warm neck. Q shivered from the contact and Bond felt the heat of a soft, relieved sigh against his shoulder, as if the coolness of his flesh eased an unknowable burden.

“Tea...” Q said weakly, and made a motion as if to move from Bond’s hold in order to get at the kettle behind him. Bond almost laughed, but held back. Trust Q to be practically on his deathbed and thinking about his morning cuppa.

“Why don’t I make it for you?” Bond replied, keeping him in place. Q did not resist, just hummed in agreement. “Good. In the meantime, you should get back to bed,” he suggested, but when Q did not move, Bond added: “I’ll bring you tea.” Q nodded and allowed himself to be turned around and nudged towards the hall to their room. “Can you make it?” he asked, only to be met with an adorably sleepy half-glare. Bond held up his hands. “Just making sure.”

 

Despite his warning glare, even after Q shuffled out of sight, Bond made sure to listen for any sounds of distress. As he filled the kettle with water, he heard coughing from down the hall, muffled by a closed door. Bond put the kettle on the hob and turned the flame up high to encourage a quick boil, then went searching through the varieties of tea they had in the house, figuring that Q’s usual caffeine-rich Earl Grey would not be the best choice. He heard the toilet flush followed by the sound of running water in the bathroom as he debated between a generic Tesco blend of chamomile that had been stuffed in the far back of the cabinet and the months-ago impulse purchase of Etno Gaivi Akimirka tea while he had been in Lithuania.

 

When Q started coughing again and did not stop, Bond put down both boxes and went to investigate. He found the bathroom door open just a crack, which was invitation enough to let himself inside. Q stood hunched over the sink with his hands braced so tightly at the edges of the counter top that his knuckles were white; his back and shoulders strained visibly with each cough. It seemed like a long time before Q calmed down, taking what sounded like near-desperate breaths on each inhale. Then he leaned over the sink to spit a few times, washing it away quickly with a torrent from the tap.

 

“Alright?” Bond asked, when Q did not look up at him. He could barely even see Q in the reflection of the mirror with his head held down so low. Q did not reply, and Bond stepped inside. He wanted to touch him, but did not know if his hands would cause more pain than comfort. “Q?”

 

“Fine,” he said, the single word sounding forced. Bond heard something distinctly wet move in his chest and then he began to cough again. It did not last long, but had Q spitting up phlegm into the sink again, which he rinsed away with cold water. Bond stopped him before he could turn the tap off again, grabbing a flannel from the linen closet which he then ran under the flow. Once damp, Bond rung it out and placed the cool cloth on the back of Q’s neck. He shivered so violently from it that Bond heard his knees knock against the cabinet beneath the sink. “I’m fine,” Q said again, after his trembling had subsided. His voice was shot from coughing, but it sounded much steadier than before. Bond wanted to tell Q how _not fine_ he was, but stopped himself, knowing that care was much more important than judgement at this stage. He kept a gentle pressure on the back of Q’s neck, turning the flannel over after a moment to press the cool side against his skin. Q made a relieved sound in his throat at the sensation.

 

“Thanks...” Q murmured.

 

“You really shouldn't be up,” Bond said, sliding his hand down to rest in the centre of Q’s back. "Let me help you to bed."

 

“S’too hot...” Q complained, body moving into Bond’s palm as he began rubbing him gently between his shoulder blades.

 

“Probably because you have a fever,” Bond replied, thinking that the stress of all the coughing had not helped the matter. He kept one hand on Q’s back as the other opened the top drawer and began rummaging through the contents, but when he did not find what he was looking for, he moved to the second one. Bond found the thermometer next to the first aid kit, uncapped it, and then held out the end to Q. “Open up,” he said, and Q took it without a word of protest. After a moment, it beeped and Bond had to look at the screen twice. “38.7 is definitely a fever.”

 

“But...it’s...really hot in here... too,” Q mumbled, weakly grasping for the compress on the back of his neck. He removed it, ran it under the cold water again, and then wrung it out before placing it back where it had been. “Really bloody hot...”

 

“I’ll turn the heat off,” Bond promised, keeping up the motion with his hand. Q had been sleeping quite well without it on before; Bond had interrupted his rest by adjusting the temperature, so he was to blame for Q’s current state. He slid an arm around Q’s waist and tried to encourage him to move. “Come on,” he said, and Q slowly followed where he led, keeping one hand clenched at the back of Bond’s shirt for balance and the other holding the damp flannel to the nape of his neck. It took a few minutes to navigate out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, round the end of the bed to Q’s side. The blankets were all in disarray and there was a pair of discarded pyjama bottoms and black socks on the floor; Q had probably stripped out of them when he’d woken up overheated.

 

The moment he got Q back into bed and propped half-upright against the pillows, Bond heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen.

 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Bond said, but did not leave until he had helped Q manoeuvre the cold compress from his neck to lay it across his forehead. “With your tea,” he added, and Q made a content sound at the news. Bond then left to go take the kettle off the hob and let it sit for a moment as he went to knock down the temperature to what it had previously been when he arrived home. Then he chose a tea (the Lithuanian one, as it had not been so determinedly shoved to the back of the cabinet like the other) and fixed it like he would Q’s regular Earl Grey: no milk, two spoonfuls of sugar.

 

When he returned to the bedroom with the steaming cup in hand, Bond went to Q’s side of the bed, setting the mug down on the cabinet before taking a seat on the edge of the mattress as he had done previously. Q tilted his head a bit in Bond’s direction, but did not open his eyes. After a few minutes of nothing but the storm outside and Q’s quiet breaths, Bond thought him asleep. But then he opened his eyes, expression turning troubled as his words tumbled out over one another when he asked: “Oh hell... what time is it?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bond said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder keep Q from moving too much, which did not stop him from trying. The flannel fell from his forehead as he reached for his glasses on the bedside cabinet, nearly tipping over the tea and half-glass of water in the process. When Q put them on, Bond saw him squint determinedly at the clock before dropping his head back down onto the pillow with quiet sound of defeat.

 

“I’m late...” he rasped out. “Again.”

 

“You’re a department head, you can be as late as you want, didn’t you get the memo?” Bond replied, feeling badly that he could not keep from smiling at the miserable look Q aimed at the ceiling. Of course he would be upset he was running late; even as sick as he was, Q was a workaholic. Bond picked up the abandoned flannel and draped it over the alarm clock, the time hidden from sight, and then took Q’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Or better yet, just not show up at all.”

 

“I’m not _you_ ,” Q said, still looking at the ceiling, but sounding much more like himself, albeit a bit weaker than his normal acerbic tone.

 

“Of course not. There’s only one of me,” Bond said, and did not miss the way Q tried, and failed, not to smile. The hand in his squeezed back weakly, but deliberately.

 

“Small mercy, that...” Q said, tilting his head slightly to regard him. He looked so exhausted, but smiled anyway. “One of you is enough.” Although some might think the words sounded exasperated, Bond heard only the fondness in Q’s voice.

 

“And I’m all yours,” Bond replied, before he could stop himself. Q looked at him, really looked at him, and even in his still-not-quite-awake-and-feverish-state, he seemed to be surprised at the admission. Surprised, but not repulsed, which was something. Not knowing how to proceed, or if he even wanted to, Bond took that moment and easily slid off Q’s glasses to return them to the night table. He placed them on the far side, where Q could not reach short of getting up out of bed.

 

“Anyway,” Bond said, clearing his throat as he tried to segue into a less awkward conversation. “You’ve got the day off. MI6 official and everything.”

 

“Day off? I don’t...get days off...” Q grumbled, and on his next intake of breath, turned his head away from Bond to cough into his right elbow. The attack ended with a wheezing swear and left Q flushed pink from the exertion.

 

“Well you’ve got this day off,” Bond said, tenderly smoothing Q’s damp fringe from his forehead and cheeks, frowning when the brush of his fingers against Q’s skin burned unpleasantly. “And maybe tomorrow as well.”

 

“You came all the way from Spain to tell me that?” he asked, his voice just barely there.

 

“Yes, and to make you tea,” Bond replied; Q raised an eyebrow at him. It was nothing like the condescending look Q had perfected since becoming Quartermaster--the one that could intimidate his work staff and field agents into doing what he wanted--but the fact that he tried for normalcy was enough. Bond wanted to hold onto it, not realising how much he desperately needed the comfortable banter between them until he had Q at half his best. It was just another thing he had come to rely on, like the feeling of the sheets on their bed and the just-barely-there minty smell of Q’s soap and the knowledge that this place was now _home_. Bond had definitely become sentimental in his old age.

 

M was probably rolling over in her grave with laughter.

 

“I don’t believe it,” Q said, even when Bond took up the mug on the bedside table and held it out to him. It took him a moment to get his fingers around it properly, even with Bond’s unobtrusive attempts to help. “Well... at least there are some perks to...feeling like shit...” Q said, once the warm cup sat comfortably between his palms. “And before you say _I told you so_ \--”

 

“Me? _Never_ ,” Bond said, grinning at the withering glare Q sent his way.

 

“You’re... a word that I can’t even think of right now...” Q replied, shaking his head slowly, as if that would help him think of what he wanted to say with more clarity.

 

“Fantastic? Stupendous? Ruggedly handsome?” Bond supplied.

 

“ _Arse_ I think is the word... yes, definitely _arse_...”

 

“You wound me, Quartermaster.”

 

Q hid his smile behind the rim of his cup as he took a sip of his tea, which caused him to grimace.

 

“You wound _me_... what _is_ this?” Q asked, affronted.

 

“Tea,” Bond said simply.

 

“This is not...tea...it’s some kind of...abomination...”

 

“It’s foreign.”

 

“It’s _awful_.”

 

“Just drink it. It’s good for you.”

 

Q took another sip with a similar expression of displeasure. He managed to drink a bit more at Bond’s insistence, stopping about halfway from finished when he started coughing again. Bond reacted quickly enough to take hold of the mug before Q spilled its contents over himself and the sheets. The attack lasted for some time and when Q was finished, he sat bent halfway over and wheezing. His hands clenched at the duvet, knuckles bloodless from his unrelenting grip.

 

“Alright?” Bond asked, setting the cup down so that he could put a hand over one of Q’s. He turned his hand and squeezed hard with his fingers; his nails dug into Bond’s skin. “Q?” At his name, Q nodded to Bond’s question, but made no attempt to speak. It took some time for his breathing to return to normal, much longer than previously, and when Bond helped him sit up back against the pillows, he could feel Q trembling.

 

“Sounds like it’s getting worse,” Bond said, watching as Q rubbed at his chest with a pained expression. His colour had turned poorly with all the stress.

 

“It’s...alright...” Q replied, swallowing as if it hurt. Bond handed him the glass of water from the nightstand, supporting the bottom as Q clutched at it weakly and began to drink from it rapidly.

 

“Slow down,” Bond advised him, and Q did, despite his apparent dehydration. Once Q finished, Bond got up and refilled the cup, then had him drink a bit more. “Better?” he asked, and Q nodded again, though he still looked dangerously peaky.

 

“I should... probably take medicine...” Q said hoarsely, sounding as if he desperately needed to cough again, but was holding back. Bond set the glass of water down next to the rejected cup of tea before taking up the prescription bottle that sat near the clock.

 

“Have you eaten anything?” Bond asked, as he read the label warnings and dosages. It said, in bold text, to not take on an empty stomach. Knowing how hard it could be to get Q to remember to eat in general, Bond doubted that he had consumed anything since lunch the previous day. His suspicions were confirmed when Q shook his head at the question. “I could make you breakfast,” Bond offered. Q did not say anything, but that did not mean Bond missed the way his complexion turned slightly green at the mention of food. “You have to eat something, Q.”

 

“Nauseous...” he said, leaning back against the pillows heavily as he closed his eyes.

 

“Just something small,” Bond told him, as he poured out the correct amount of cough suppressant into the small cup.

 

“I’ll try...but I can’t promise I won’t vomit on you...” Q replied with a tired smile, which he returned. Bond helped Q with the medicine and handed him the glass of water afterwards to chase the bitter taste away. Then he went and filled up the cup again from the tap in the bathroom, returning with it and the bin they kept beneath the sink. Q had already started dozing, but he righted his drooping head when Bond came back into the room. “Just in case,” Bond told him, holding up the receptacle; Q managed to look somewhere between amused and offended at what Bond considered thoughtfulness. Once Bond placed the bin on Q’s side of the bed, he went round to the other side to where he had dropped his luggage and unzipped the top flap.

 

“I brought these back for you. Think you can try to stomach one?” Bond asked, holding up the bag for Q to see. Nearly one dozen bright orange fruits were crammed inside. Q blinked at the offering.

 

“What,” he said. Bond could tell he was already hazy from the medication.

 

“Valencian clementines,” Bond explained, opening the bag to take one of the larger fruits out. Then he stood from his crouched position and went over to the bed, where Bond sat on his side of the mattress, facing Q. He handed the clementine over to Q as he got situated, crossing his legs to get more comfortable.

 

“How did you...you can’t bring fruit like this on a plane...” Q said, holding the fruit in his palm with a sort of bemused expression.

 

“You must be ill. Do you forget what I do for a living?” Bond asked, taking the clementine from Q to begin peeling it.

 

“But Customs...” Q tried to argue and Bond shook his head.

 

“I’ll explain it to you some other time,” Bond replied, and found himself smiling affectionately at his sleepy partner. The medicine worked quickly, it seemed. Not only had Q stopped coughing, but the narcotic effect was almost immediate. “When you’re more coherent.”

 

“I am coherent,” Q insisted, though Bond could see him struggling to stay awake. It reminded Bond of a child trying to stay up past his bedtime. 

 

“Have a couple bites of this, then you can go to sleep,” Bond said. He separated a small wedge from the fruit and then pressed it against Q’s dry lips. Despite his statement of nausea before, Q took it with no hesitation and began chewing slowly, either savouring the flavour or because he did not have enough energy to do so any faster.

 

“It’s good,” Q said, after he swallowed.

 

“They’re in season now,” Bond told him, offering another one to Q, which he took without fuss. “They’re from the orchard that Velasco went to. I thought the Vitamin C would help your cold.” Bond did not have to go into detail as to how he had come across the fruits, because admitting that he had killed Velasco in his own room and then stolen his souvenirs sounded a little ruthless, even for him. They always said it was the thought that mattered.

 

“Good... I need to get back to work,” Q replied, his voice cracking under the strain of each syllable. Bond forced another slice on him to keep him quiet, using his thumb to wipe at the bit of juice left on Q’s lower lip. Q hummed at the affectionate gesture, lashes fluttering when Bond repeated the action.

 

“You need to get back to resting,” Bond said, petting Q’s fringe back from his forehead. Q mumbled something that did not even sound like actual words, which Bond thought terribly adorable. His eyes had closed completely. It did not take much for Bond to coax him back into lying down in bed, only hesitating once when the change of position brought a painful sound from Q’s chest. Bond eased his head onto the pillow with as much care as he would show a pressure-sensitive explosive device, not wanting to agitate Q when he so obviously needed the rest. It seemed that the moment Q laid horizontal, he was asleep. The medication would probably keep him asleep for another few hours.

 

Bond did not need to stay, but he wanted to. He sat there and finished off the clementine, listening to each strained pull of air Q took in and let out. Reluctantly, he stood and cleaned up the mess from the fruit, binned it in the kitchen, and then washed his hands in the sink. Bond knew he should check in with MI6 and debrief, but it could wait. He had never been one for following protocol in the past, and decided that he would not do so now, even if Q would insist he did not need Bond to coddle him.

 

Returning to their room, Bond slid into bed with enough care that the mattress barely dipped under his weight. Q did not move, not even when Bond pulled the blankets up and over the both of them to keep the cold at bay. Despite his desire to be closer to Q, Bond kept his distance. He did not want to cause any sort of undue discomfort for his sick lover with the unneeded weight and heat of a hand or arm upon him.

 

Bond closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion creeping into his bones and muscles. The mission had not been difficult, but between worrying over Q’s condition and all of the emotional baggage he had started sifting through, Bond felt more than his fair share of tired. Being back home soothed some of it, but not all, and as he lay there listening to Q’s rattling breaths, Bond questioned himself again. Did he really want things to change? Did Q? Was it worth losing what they had now to find out?

 

The quiet broke when Q made a soft, yet distressed sound; Bond immediately sat up in bed, ready to act in any way that might be helpful. But Q apparently did not need him, turning from his back and onto his side to face in Bond’s direction. His breathing settled back into its sickly, but steady, pattern and after a few moments, Bond eventually convinced himself to lie back down again. Q curled toward him in the way he sometimes did when seeking touch or body heat, and Bond obliged by moving a bit closer.

 

Soon after, Bond had Q pressed against his front, head tucked under his chin, and their legs twined around each other. The position was a familiar one--one which, one night, Q had sleepily admitted to employing when he wanted to ensure Bond was actually _there_ and not a dream (which made Bond wonder just how many times Q had dreamed him, only to wake disappointed and alone)--but the warmth in Q’s body was not. He shivered despite their shared proximity, and Bond pulled the duvet a little tighter over them as he moved his arm round the other man. Q did not seem to mind, so Bond did not pull away.

 

He held onto Q like that for some time and he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke, Bond knew it to be later in the day. He felt sluggish and disoriented in a way that had nothing to do with the minuscule time difference and everything to do with the feverish body flush against his. Overly warm himself, Bond regretfully, but purposefully extricated himself from Q’s weak hold. He sat on the edge of the bed, slightly damp with sweat and with his bare feet pressed firmly against the cool hardwood floor. Behind him, Q sighed in his sleep: the same sort of disappointed sound he made when Bond brought back broken equipment or nothing at all. Bond turned in place and reached back to smooth his fingers through Q’s hair the way he liked, taking special care to keep his motions soft enough to not wake him. His skin burned brand iron hot, but Bond calmed his unease, knowing that Q slept deeply and without pain.

 

Bond pulled his hand away, adjusted the blankets up over Q again, and was just considering taking another shower to cool down when he heard a muted vibration come from his luggage. Leaning over, Bond pulled his bag closer to dig out his mobile. There were three SMS messages from Eve. 

 

 

* * *

  
**Messages**                                               001 003                                                                  **Create New**

_Nov 16, 2012 1225_

Come downstairs  
I need help carrying things  
EM

_Nov 16, 2012 1230_

Chivalry really is dead  
how nice  
EM

_Nov 16, 2012 1237_

Open the bloody door  
EM

* * *

 

Bond looked down at his rumbled sleep attire and then back at Q. Neither of them were truly fit for guests, and Bond had a nasty feeling Eve might want to talk about things that Bond most certainly was in no state to address. But he also knew Eve well enough that she would make all sorts of noise trying to break down the door if he did not answer, and Bond did not want the neighbours to lose their good opinion of “the nice same-sex couple down the hall”. Still, he thought it would not hurt to bait her and replied:

 

 

* * *

  
**Messages**                                             001 003                                                                        **Create New**

_Nov 16, 2012 1238_

I don’t open the door  
for strangers

JB

 

 

 

I’ll shoot you  
and mean it this time  
EM

* * *

 

Bond got out of bed, ignoring the creaks of protest in his old(er) body, and left the bedroom. He made sure to pull the door almost all the way closed behind him, hoping it would keep their voices from waking Q. Then he went to the front door and found Eve on the other side, rain-damp and glaring steadily at him. Two wet paper grocery bags sat at her feet.

 

“It’s about time,” Eve said, brushing past him as she let herself inside, shaking rain droplets everywhere. “This building really needs to fix the lifts. All those stairs are murder.” She stopped and pointed at the bags on the ground in the hallway. “Well? Make yourself useful.” Bond almost said something scathing, but held back. He picked them up and brought them into the kitchen as Eve shucked out of her coat and removed her heels. When she appeared a moment later, she looked less like an angry drowned cat and more like herself.

 

“You look like shit,” Eve began, letting her eyes wander along Bond’s old sweats and day-old stubble pointedly. A childish part of Bond wanted to reply to her in kind, but Eve could somehow pull off the just-got-poured-on look without making it seem like an inconvenience.

 

“I was asleep,” he said instead.

 

“Sorry for waking you.”

 

“No you’re not.”

 

She smirked at him.

 

“You’re back early,” Eve continued, with all kinds of implication in her tone.

 

“Finished early,” Bond answered, and hurried to change the course of conversation. “Coffee?”

 

“Please,” she said, and Bond turned away from her to fix a cup. The carafe was still warm from earlier that morning. He could feel her gaze burning holes into his back, but he did not let any discomfort show. Years in his line of work perfected that skill.

 

“How do you take it?”

 

“With cream.”

 

Bond opened the door to the fridge. There was nothing but the takeaway containers on the top shelf (that had been there when Bond left), a half-stick of butter (untouched for the days he had been gone), and a carton of milk. When Bond tried to remember when he had picked up the milk (before or after the Syrian mission?) he could not recall, and instead went by the expiration date on the side. It had turned about a week ago.

 

“Do you want to risk it?” Bond asked, holding up the container. Eve made a face when she saw the date.

 

“You two are hopeless,” she said, and began rummaging through one of the paper bags she had brought.

 

“We’re never here,” Bond replied as she produced a fresh carton of semi-skimmed.

 

“Still hopeless,” Eve said, and Bond had to wonder if she was talking about something entirely different from the milk. She pushed him aside and fixed herself a cup of coffee instead of allowing Bond to finish. After pouring a liberal amount of cream into her coffee, Eve put the new carton in the fridge, then began to empty the old one into the sink, which she quickly rinsed down with scalding hot water. “That’s why I went out and got you some groceries. You can’t expect to survive on takeaway alone.”

 

“You went grocery shopping,” Bond said, letting some disbelief colour his tone as he peeked into the nearest bag. It was filled with all sorts of fresh ingredients mixed in with boxes and plastic containers.

 

“In theory, yes,” Eve replied, taking a sip of her coffee before shooing Bond away from the bag, which she began unpacking.

 

“In theory?”

 

“I gave a list to someone who did all the shopping for me.”

 

“And you couldn’t just have it delivered here?”

 

“I wanted to visit.”

 

“Of course you did,” Bond said, looking at the stack of items on the counter. It looked like Eve had ordered the entire produce section: bananas, oranges, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, sweet onions, celery stalks, green and red peppers, and broccoli stems. Beside them sat several plastic containers with clear lids that seemed to contain some kind of soup or broth. Eve had also purchased several wrapped parcels of meats as well as eggs, bread, cheese, a bag of white rice, a box of crackers, and a giant jug of orange juice. “Are you trying to feed an army?”

 

“Bond, this is what normal people eat in less than a week,” Eve said, moving around him as she began to put things away in the refrigerator, "and if you want Q to get better, you’re going to have to feed him.”

 

“I know that,” Bond said defensively. Eve looked at him with something akin to sympathy.

 

“How is he?” she asked, and her voice seemed softer than before.

 

“Sick,” Bond said, leaning against the counter. He tried not to let his concern and exhaustion show. “He didn’t even fight me when I told him he couldn’t go to work today or tomorrow.” Eve paused, carrots hovering just above the open crisper door.

 

“Worse than yesterday, then,” Eve said, depositing the vegetables before closing the drawer and then the fridge door.

 

“Bad cough, high fever,” Bond elaborated, running a tired hand over his face. “The medicine at least helps him sleep.”

 

“Half of MI6 is down from this, you know,” Eve said, as she stood up and brushed off the front of her frock. “It’s a madhouse.”

 

“I’m sure,” Bond said, more out of politeness than anything, because with complete honesty he cared fuck all about the rest of MI6 when he had Q laid up in bed, burning up and barely able to breathe.

 

“So serious,” Eve teased, as she took the last few things out of the remaining bag. “He’s not going to die, you know.” There must have been something that broke through in his expression because she winced in apology. When she continued, her tone came across much kinder. “Q will be fine in a few days. Just make sure he rests.” She held up one of the boxes that she had pulled from the bag, revealing a pack of fast-acting Panadol, different from the general sort Q kept on hand for headaches. “Have him take one every four to six hours for the fever,” Eve instructed. “The cough medicine is the same: about every six hours or as needed.” She then procured a small blue jar from the bag and held it out to Bond, who took it.

 

“Camphor?” he asked, when he uncapped it to smell the cream inside.

 

“The chemist said it’s one of the best things for any respiratory problem,” Eve explained. “Rub it on his back and chest to help him breathe.” She then proceeded to lecture Bond on a number of health related issues, covering everything from the importance of hydration to acceptable forms of sustenance before and after the fever broke. 

 

“And if he gets worse?” Bond asked, before he could stop himself. It might have been years of training: to expect that things always could get worse and to prepare for them. It might have also been experience, because too many times Bond had come to the conclusion that things were fine until they suddenly were not.

 

“He won’t,” Eve said, and smiled. “Not with you taking care of him.”

 

He must have not looked convinced, because she put her hands on his arms in a sort of comforting gesture.

 

“I’m not just saying that, really. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be fine,” Eve told him, with no uncertainty. “ _If_ \--and that’s a very small _if_ \--he gets worse, you can always call Medical.”

 

He conceded that she was right and purposefully stepped out of her reach, setting out to do things in the kitchen so that he did not have to look at her.

 

“Thank you for the groceries,” Bond said, in an attempt to end their conversation entirely before anything else revealing happened.

 

“You’re welcome,” she answered, but did not leave, and Bond could feel her holding back what she wanted to say. The silence filled with it and Bond wished he could find something to do to make noise. The only thing he could think of was to pour himself the last bit of coffee, but it did nothing for the oppressive quiet. Finally, Eve spoke.

 

“Okay, so what’s really bothering you?”

 

He could tell she was still nursing her half cup of coffee so that she had an excuse to stay.

 

“Q’s sick. That’s what’s bothering me,” Bond replied easily.

 

“No, it’s something else,” Eve said. “I know you well enough by now to know when something’s wrong.

 

“It’s nothing,” Bond replied, emptying out the remaining liquid in the kettle he had left on the hob. Eve fell back into unnerving quiet as Bond pointedly finished his coffee and then tried to find things to clean. By the time he had finished with the meagre amount of dishes (his coffee mug, a few spoons, and the carafe) and she still had not said anything, Bond went into the fridge and pulled out the old takeaway to dump into the bin. As he tied off the bag, Eve broke the silence, probably unable to contain herself any longer:

 

“You’re in love with him.”

 

Bond pulled the knot so hard on the rubbish bag that it ripped.

 

“I knew it,” she said.

 

“Eve.”

 

“Nope, I called it. I absolutely knew it.”

 

She was grinning like she’d just won a million quid.

 

“It’s not like that,” Bond said, trying to repair the damage done to the bag with as much focus he would put into dismantling a bomb.

 

“Oh, really?” she asked.

 

“No,” Bond said, and it was not a lie, not really. He cared for Q more than he thought he would, especially after their quasi-relationship established itself on extremely nontraditional foundations. They had fallen into bed together multiple times, hard and fast and almost-desperate, but then the needy edge, the itch beneath their skin, calmed. It did not make them want the other any less, but in the wake of that raw hunger there was suddenly room for other things, like their shared breakfasts in the mornings and the rare, but enjoyable evenings together with takeaway and a film. And then there were the nights when just holding onto Q, having someone next to him that he knew he could _trust_ , trumped sex entirely.

 

Bond wanted more, yes, but love...that was something else completely. And strangely, Bond did not think of Vesper.

 

“It’s complicated,” Bond eventually said.

 

“God, the two of you. I’ve never seen two people so _fucking blind_ \--”

 

“Eve--”

 

She pushed past him and opened the cabinet above the coffee maker, where two entire shelves were consumed by a wide variety of international teas Bond had specifically purchased for Q on his travels.

 

“You can’t deny that this is more than casual shagging, Bond,” Eve said, expression serious.

 

It might have been just a lot of tea to someone else, but Eve was much more perceptive. She obviously saw that it was something Bond thought about, something that he did not _have_ to think about, but wanted to, when he was out there. She must have seen that he had been thinking of Q beyond the scope of the bedroom: as someone he cared enough for and knew well enough to bring home souvenirs. And even Bond was not so blind to see that Q cherished the gifts. Over time, the boxes had gotten their own shelf, then two, and though Q still strictly drank Earl Grey in the morning with breakfast and at work, Bond knew that he indulged on the evenings he came home and had time for more than just a shower and sleep. More than once, Bond had come home and found two or three abandoned mugs around the flat, each with their own unique smell and tea bag. Even if the teas were not to his taste, he never threw them away. Bond had a feeling that even the Lithuanian tea, which had not been pleasing to Q’s palate at all, would still have residence in the cabinet months from now. By then, the teas might push out the spices for a third shelf if Bond did not go through and clear some out.

 

Eve raised her eyebrow at him and Bond then realised that he had not said anything yet. He did not know how much time had passed, but he knew that it was much too late to try to lie now.

 

“It might be more than a casual shagging.”

 

“‘Might be’? Have you seen the state of your wardrobe? You’re like a married couple.”

 

“Eve, just don’t,” Bond said, his tone more weary than demanding. All of these thoughts had been on his mind before, days ago when he had stood in Q’s office and told him that they were not breaking their own rules, and then Q had gotten sick and Eve started meddling where she did not belong and everything had become so bloody complicated. _You need to tell him_. “Not right now.”

 

She closed the cabinet door.

 

“You can’t keep not talking about it,” Eve said.

 

“We’re going to,” Bond said, surprising her as much as himself.

 

“When? The end of time?”

 

“Soon, but not now.”

 

She set down her coffee cup.

 

“What do you think he’ll say?” Eve asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Bond answered honestly.

 

“What are you going to say?” she asked and he looked past her, down the hall at the closed bedroom door.

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

Q woke feeling as if he had just been struck by a Land Rover, or how he imagined one would feel if struck by said vehicle.

 

His limbs ached to the point that he thought all of his bones were broken. A blinding headache radiated from the crown of his skull, leaving him to wonder if he had acquired a concussion somehow. Unnervingly, he felt hot to the point of being cold. But most of all, it was near agony to breathe, as if his lungs were slowly being crushed. At first, he did not know why he had woken, aside from the pain, but then he felt a light pressure on his upper arm. It took him a moment to realise that it was a hand, and that hand shook him gently, but even the tenderness of the gesture made him hurt, and he cringed away from it.

 

“No...”

 

He heard himself grumble out the single word as though from underwater. The hand retreated, and left him alone for an indeterminable amount of time. He spent that unknown number of minutes--seconds, hours?--trying to figure out the best way to breathe without having to struggle. The hand returned sometime during this exercise, but did not make to touch his oversensitive skin. Instead, it rested lightly on his head and pet his hair. It felt good. Good and familiar, but it took Q an eternity to remember why.

 

“James?” he rasped. The fingers stopped momentarily, but then continued brushing through his hair. He heard someone speaking, but could not make out the words. He tried to call for James again, but he found himself gasping for air instead. It triggered a round of coughing that hurt so badly it must have rendered him unconscious, because when he came to, he was in a different position--on his back instead of on his side--that unfortunately did not make it any easier to breathe. The hand came back. It touched his hair and then his face. Then he felt cold, slick fingers on his chest, then back, then throat, rubbing gently, spreading something over his skin that felt like ice. He shivered. He wanted James. Where was James? He wanted to call for him but he had no voice.

 

A cool flannel rested across his forehead. It felt so good he could have cried. He might have, between the pain in his head and the weight that sat on his chest like a stone. He wanted James. He felt slightly damp, warm, familiar palms take hold of his face; he felt calloused thumbs brush at the corners of his eyes, along his cheeks.

 

Then he felt nothing at all. 

 

* * *

 

When Q woke again, it was to splinters of gold light beneath his lashes. Their brightness aggravated his headache. He turned his head away and then the light disappeared, giving way to blissful darkness. But the overwhelming heat from before remained and something had been laid on top of him, so heavy that it felt like it was trying to strangle him. Q pushed at the source of his discomfort weakly, but it seemed that every time he managed to free himself, it returned. He attempted to fight it, but moving hurt everything and made him want to cough. He turned his head, and tried, but had no breath to force the motion. The hands came back, then the cold, damp cloth, and Q shivered in relief. It chased away some of the heat, but it was still so hard to breathe. He wanted James. He tried to move, to turn onto his side, but the hands stopped him. The mere touch sent pain radiating through his body, along his skin, but Q could do nothing to resist. _James, James, James_ he wanted James. He heard himself whimper as the hands helped him into a semi-upright position; the weighty pressure in his lungs alleviated slightly, shifting something wet and heavy there that made him cough until he physically could not do so any longer.

Q felt consciousness slipping away from him again, like sand between his fingers, and he did not want to grasp at it anyway because James was not there, so he let himself go.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, Q felt himself come back, slowly, as if wading through tree sap.

 

His awareness seemed clearer than before somehow, with his headache having receded to a dull throb in the back of his skull. He knew for certain that he was in his room at home, in his own bed, and could identify the overly warm drape of heavy blankets over him and two or three pillows beneath his back and head, keeping him in a reclined position. It was only when he moved slightly and tried to open his eyes that he became aware of someone next to him. The weight had been just barely there on the sheets, only a slight dip to the mattress, but when Q felt fingers in his hair, he _knew._

 

“James,” he said clearly.

 

“Hey.”

 

The fingers did not stop. It felt unbelievably soothing. Q tried to open his eyes again, but could not.

 

“I can’t open my eyes,” Q said, his voice airy and detached even to his own ears. He knew he should be more worried, but he could not dredge up the concern when Bond touched him like that.

 

“You’re alright,” he answered. Thankfully his hand did not stop. It was soft enough that it did not hurt, but not so soft that Q could not feel the reassuring brush of fingertips through his curls.

 

“What’s that smell?” Q asked, picking up the scent of something poignant and heavy, familiar, but he could not place it.

 

“Camphor,” Bond replied. The moment he put a name to it, Q recognised why it had seemed so familiar: his mother had used it frequently during his youth. He could clearly recall her sitting at his bedside, rubbing the thick, cool gel over his skin to ease the pain of his chest ailments. Those memories were in abundance because, every year when the seasons changed, Q had come down with a cold like clockwork. The winter ones were the worst, exacerbated and prolonged by the unrelenting chill of their old house, usually rendering him bedridden for a week or more. Q remembered that more than one Christmas holiday had been ruined because of his illness.

 

“What...time is it?” Q asked, after a moment of gaining his bearings.

 

“Don’t worry. How do you feel?” Bond asked, all business, but with a gentleness to his voice that Q could not ever remember hearing before.

 

“Like shite,” Q said; Bond laughed. He sat so close that Q could feel the breath on his cheek and he smiled. “Did I puke on you?”

 

“No, thankfully not,” Bond replied in good humour.

 

“I’ll...have to try harder...next time...” Q said, and Bond huffed out another laugh.

 

“There’s still time. You’re not out of the woods yet...”

 

Bond’s touch stilled in his hair and a moment later, Q felt the back of his cool hand pressed gently against his brow.

 

“Your fever’s come down a bit, but...” he trailed off, and before Q could get up the strength to ask why Bond sounded so concerned, he spoke again. “Do you think you could keep down some paracetamol?”

 

“ _God, yes_...everything hurts...” Q groaned, and then turned his head to relieve the pressure in his lungs. It was much easier to do so in an upright position, but damn if it did not _hurt_. Each cough jostled his already-aching body, bringing back the discomfort he had felt so distanced from before. The headache returned full force, right behind his eyes that still refused to open. And his chest not only felt heavy, but _burned_ , pinpricks of heat upon each breath. By the end of it, Q felt some of the sharpness of his previous awareness fading and it was only Bond’s hands on him that kept him from slipping away again.

 

“Q,” Bond said, sounding like he stood at the end of a long tunnel. Q could barely hear him. “Q,” he said again, but closer, clearer. Awareness crept back to him sluggishly, but steadily: the bed and blankets and the _pain_ and Bond... Two cool palms rested on either side of his neck, fingers cradling Q’s aching skull tenderly. He heard his name again, felt Bond’s weight beside him, and the warmth from his breath, and it was good and he was there, but Q still could not open his eyes. “Stay with me.” It was probably the fever, but Q thought he sounded a little desperate.

 

“m’here...” Q managed to get out, after what seemed like an eternity. It seemed very important that he say that, because he had a feeling Bond needed to hear it.

 

“Good...” Bond's tone was coloured with relief. His fingers clenched a little too hard in Q’s hair and he winced. Bond immediately let go, sweeping a thumb apologetically along his jawline momentarily. “I’ll be right back,” he said, something tight in his voice, and then his weight and presence disappeared from Q’s side.

 

When he returned, it was with a slightly chalky pill and blissfully cold water. Q swallowed the pill and drank all the water, not realising how thirsty he had been until that moment. Bond took the empty glass away and Q felt a rush of disappointment, only to be replaced with gratitude when Bond offered him more water. It combated the heat in his body and chest and for that, Q could deal with the queasy feeling that flared up in his stomach.

 

“Better?” Bond asked. Q did not trust himself to speak and so he simply made a noncommittal sound to the question. The water had left him sated and tired, dulling some of the heat and pain, but not all of it. Between that and his nausea, he did not know if he would be able to sleep again despite his exhaustion. A breath later and Q found himself coughing weakly, holding back as much as he could to not bring up the water and medication he had just taken.

 

Although he eventually quieted down, Q still felt the need to cough pulling tight in his lungs. Resisting it made him hot and uncomfortable, but it was better than the alternative of retching all over himself and the sheets. Bond’s hands returned and petted at his hair until he felt a little less miserable. The nausea subsided somewhat with the affection, but the pain in his chest did not, even after Bond gently rubbed camphor into his skin. The menthol chased away the heat in his lungs, but did nothing to ease their inflammation. They felt so raw that Q wanted to stop breathing, just for a little while, to stop _hurting_. Instead, he began coughing again, nearly in tears by the end of it.

 

“Q?” Bond said, so close that Q could feel him and the warmth radiating from his skin. Despite that, Q shivered, cold from the camphor rub and the chills replacing the previous overwhelming heat.

 

“Do you want to take some cough medicine?” Bond asked. In all honesty, Q did not. The medicine made him feel sick and the narcotic left him disoriented and unmotivated, only wanting to sleep and nothing else. But at the same time, it would ease the want to cough, which is what Q needed more than anything else...

 

At his single nod, Bond’s hands and the weight on the bed left him momentarily. Then they came back and something plastic pressed against his lips. The disgustingly bitter taste of the medication hit his tongue. Q managed to swallow it without gagging, though it was a hard thing, and eagerly drank the water that Bond provided afterward. Then he lay back against the pillow and tried not to think about coughing or vomiting or both. Bond laid a cool compress across his chest, quelling both desires.

 

“You’re...so good to me...” Q heard himself say, voice not his own nor under his control. “Why are you...so good to me...?”

 

“Shh,” Bond replied, and Q felt him use the edge of the flannel to brush over the hot skin of his neck. “Sleep.”

 

“‘m’sorry,” Q said, already feeling sleep pulling at the edges of his consciousness. His tongue felt heavy and slow.

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Q,” Bond told him, and the way he said it, Q wanted to believe him, but even through the haze of a fever and all the pain relievers, he could not.

 

“y’shouldn’t....y’don’t have to...” Q tried, slurring over the words as he fought to stay awake, compelled to speak despite his jumbled thoughts. “Me...take care of me...”

 

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” Bond said, as the cool cloth moved from his chest, up along the column of his throat. He traced it along Q’s jaw and then up to press at his temple. It felt distractingly good in combination with the drugs coursing through his system, which pulled him further and further away from reality. Soon he could barely feel the damp fabric or James' hands on him or the blankets piled over his body; it was like all of those things were touching someone else entirely, a different body that was not his but was his all the same. The bed seemed to pull him in, like plunging him down into heavy water, like there were thousands upon thousands of small hands pulling him into dark and unknown depths. He did not fight at first, because James was finally there with him and would take care of him, Q knew that, trusted him more than anyone, but then James began to speak again and Q knew it must be important. It left him clutching at the words that James whispered next.

 

“Would you be angry with me if I said I might love you?”

 

It was not really a fair question, Q thought vaguely, so far away that he could not feel himself at all. But he had heard it and James had said it like he meant it and Q hoped he could remember when he woke, because he did not want to forget. And he wanted to say something, _anything_ , but he had been balancing at the precipice of oblivion and it overwhelmed him, suddenly and completely, before Q could say anything at all.

 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

Bond awoke suddenly, heart racing, body tensed and his hand reaching for the bedside cabinet where he kept his gun.

 

The room was dark with all the drapes shut tightly, but Bond knew it to be early evening. He had fallen into several fitful sleeps throughout the day, not resting for more than an hour at a time, waking at the slightest shift or sound that Q made from beside him. Mid-afternoon had been the worst, when fever had him in the clutches of delirium. Bond had done all he could with cold compresses and gentle touches, not wanting to risk forcing medication on Q in his barely-conscious state. He had hoped that the fever would break, giving Q some reprieve, but it remained at its highest point of 39 degrees for hours until it finally began dropping around 1500.

 

It was only when Q seemed lucid enough that Bond got him to drink fluids and take the appropriate analgesics. After Bond had given Q the cough medicine, he finally slept peacefully, leaving Bond in oppressive, pensive silence. He thought about what he had said, dwelled upon it until he fell asleep, not quite regretting the admission, but at the same time not having any other word for it. What had he expected with Q in such a state? To understand? To give him an indication that he might feel the same? Bond doubted he would even remember upon waking, which he could not decide would be a good or bad thing.

 

But those concerns were for another time. Something had woken him and now Bond sat up in their bed, staring at the half-closed door to the bedroom with no lingering traces of sleep and his finger flirting at the trigger of his Walther.

 

Hot, dry fingers pressed gently against his upper arm. Bond had acclimated himself well enough to know Q’s touch anywhere, and did not react violently, as training dictated. Instead, he turned to look at Q in the dark, slowly setting down his gun on the bedside table as he did so.

 

“Q,” he said, as the other man withdrew his hand. As his vision adjusted to the lack of light, Bond was able to make out Q’s form. He no longer lay back against the pillows, but upright, perched on the edge of the bed as if about to stand.

 

“Sorry... for waking you...” Q said, voice thick with sleep and so weak that Bond barely heard him.

 

“What are you doing up?” Bond asked. Q took a breath to answer, but ended up leaning forward to cough weakly. Bond rested his hand at the centre of Q’s back; he felt the strain in every vertebrae as he smoothed his palm along Q’s spine. Once he was through, Bond tried to coax him into lying back down again, but Q resisted his hand.

 

“Have to piss,” Q said, reaching at the edge of the bedside cabinet to help push himself up out of bed.

 

“Let me help you,” Bond said, sliding over to Q’s side.

 

Surprisingly, Q let out a small laugh. It sounded wet with the infection in his lungs, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

 

“You can’t piss for me,” he said, and Bond found himself smiling as he manoeuvred an arm around Q’s waist and stood up with him.

 

“That I can’t, but I can at least help you to the bathroom,” Bond replied.

 

“I’m alright,” Q said, despite leaning heavily against Bond for support for the entire journey. Testament to the extent of his condition, Q did not ask for privacy and Bond did not give it. Even if Q would have asked, Bond might have refused, as he doubted the other man could keep upright for long unassisted. Afterward, Q insisted that he needed to brush his teeth and, upon looking closely at himself in the mirror, wash up a bit.

 

“I need a shower,” he said, touching his fringe. Between sweating from the fever and Bond’s constant attention to it, Q’s hair had become a bit greasy, standing up even worse than usual.

 

“You need food,” Bond said, meeting his unfocused gaze in the mirror. Although Q could do habitual things like using the bathroom and making tea, Bond knew that he was otherwise blind and completely helpless without his glasses.

 

“After a shower?” Q asked, and there a tenor of hope rang clearly in his abused voice. Bond did not want to disappoint him, but he also did not think it was the best idea. Even if Bond were to help, he doubted Q would be able to stand for very long and, if he somehow _could_ , that it would only deplete what little bit of energy he had managed to recover from an entire day’s rest.

 

“What about a bath instead?” Bond asked. Q leaned back against his chest and Bond’s arms immediately encircled him. The familiar embrace was a relief, a step back towards normalcy, but Q still felt too warm and too thin. He smelled heavily of camphor and the sickly sweetness of his cough medicine.

 

“A bath...sounds really nice...” Q agreed, moving his hands to rest atop Bond’s, small and pale over his brawny, tanned flesh. Bond looked at their reflection in the mirror. And he saw it. He saw it all in the way that Q fit perfectly against him with that tired, but content little smile, and in the way that he looked at Q with nothing short of adoration. No wonder Eve had been all sorts of adamant about things; it was so plain to see.

 

_You’re in love with him._

 

“I’ll draw it. You sit down,” Bond said, kissing his temple. The affection came naturally, without Bond having to think on it.

 

“Are you going to join me?” Q asked, as Bond got him to take a seat on the closed toilet lid. He smiled up at Bond. It was not as bright or as full as his usual, but it still was enough to make Bond want to kiss him. He held back only because he knew Q would object while he was ill and returned the smile instead.

 

“Next time,” Bond promised, moving to sit on the edge of the bath.

 

“I don’t blame you...I probably look and smell like the bottom of a bog,” Q said, as Bond began to rinse out the tub. He looked over at Q, as if assessing him for the validity of his statement. The only colour to him was the pale flush of illness on his cheeks; the rest of him as white as the over sized shirt he wore. But he was definitely more aware than previously. Even his eyes were a bit brighter.

 

“Nope, still handsome as ever,” Bond said with a grin.

 

“Liar,” Q retorted.

 

“Think about what I do for a living.”

 

“Yes, but it’s your job to make the lies believable.”

 

“I could always tell the truth.”

 

“You could, but we are in the business of espionage.”

 

Q’s wit came through clearly, but with less of a razor edge with his voice so close to failing. When Bond looked up, he saw Q trying not to grin.

 

“Well then, you can decide if I’m telling the truth or not,” Bond said, as he put stopper in the drain and turned the tap to begin filling the tub with hot water, “but I think your hair looks better like this.”

 

“You’re taking the piss,” Q said flatly, glancing up at one particularly spectacular cowlick.

 

“Nope. I honestly mean it. Besides, looking like a cat styled it is apparently the new fashion.”

 

Q bit at his grin and put his hand to his chest.

 

“I can’t laugh...because it’ll hurt...so much...” he got out, before dissolving into a mingled fit of coughing and laughter. When it was over, Q wheezed with his subsequent breaths and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “Ugh, I am so done...feeling like shite...” he grumbled, voice raw. Bond rubbed at Q’s knee, feeling his lover shiver as he put his arms around himself. His legs and feet were still bare.

 

“The bath will help,” Bond said.

 

When the tub was almost full, Bond got him out of his shirt and pants and into the water. Q sighed once immersed, relaxing under Bond’s hands as he helped him bathe. The look of bliss on Q's face when Bond washed his hair would have been erotic in any other situation, but in this case, it was just endearing. The steam and warm water did wonders for Q’s cough and complexion. At the end of it, Bond felt sore from kneeling by the tub and he was slightly damp, but Q looked much happier and with a bit more colour than before, which Bond thought worth it.

 

“That...felt good...” Q said sleepily, as Bond dressed him. The bath had made him pliant and agreeable, making it easy to get him into clean pants and pyjamas, as well as socks. For good measure, Bond wrapped him up in his dressing gown. Q did not resist or say a word about the obvious coddling, and contrary to what Bond thought might come out of his mouth, at the end of it Q looked at him openly and said: “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Bond said, combing back Q’s damp hair from his forehead. It stood up at odd angles, but he made no effort to fix it. Instead, he helped Q stand and led him out of the warm bathroom. The hallway felt cold in comparison, even to Bond. “Do you want dinner in the living room or in bed?”

 

“First a bath, then dinner...you spoil me,” Q replied, attempting for humour. It failed when he began coughing and had to hold onto Bond’s arm to remain standing. But after, when Bond tried to lead him towards the bedroom, Q weakly refused. “I’ve been...in there all day,” he said, slurring out the next few words: “Couch’sfine.”

 

Unable to say no, Bond brought him out into the living room to sit on the sofa. Once there, he propped Q up against a mountain of pillows and then proceeded to drown him in blankets.

 

“James,” Q said, with such seriousness that Bond stopped gathering up the fourth blanket he planned on adding to the pile. “I’m alright.”

 

“You need to stay warm,” Bond replied, and dropped said blanket onto the heap on the sofa.

 

“And I am...” Q began, stopping momentarily to cough again. Bond used that time to get him a glass of water, which he gratefully took when he stopped. He pushed at the blankets, which Bond replaced, despite the look Q gave him around the rim of the glass.

 

“Just trying to help,” Bond said, sliding his palm along the length of Q’s leg in a comforting gesture. “It might help your fever break.” Q regarded him blearily, his usual edge dulled with illness, which Bond knew was the only reason he gave in and dropped his head back against the pillows.

 

“‘s’hot,” he grumbled, but made no move to push at the blankets again.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, but stayed firm. “Just relax for a bit. I’ll get you something to eat.” He took the empty glass from Q’s hand and then covered the exposed appendage with blankets.

 

“Remote?” Q asked as he lifted his head a bit, looking hopeful for a distraction from his fabric prison. Amused, Bond reached for the remote and used the device to flip on the telly. He found a rerun of Doctor Who on BBC One and left it on, knowing Q would appreciate it. Without his glasses, Bond knew that seeing the screen was beyond Q’s ability, but the moment he heard Nine’s voice, Q smiled.

 

“Do you want your glasses?” Bond asked, but Q just shook his head. “You’ve probably seen all of these anyway, haven’t you?” If anything, Q’s smile widened and Bond shook his head knowingly, unable to resist combing his fingers through Q’s hair briefly before standing.

 

Bond then went into the kitchen, pulled one of the many containers off the top shelf of the fridge, and opened it. It held a golden, salty-smelling broth that Bond recognised as chicken noodle, minus the chicken and the noodles. He heated it up on the stove top, stirring occasionally, listening to Q’s frequent, muffled coughing from the sofa. When Bond returned to the living room, soup in hand, he found Q still beneath the blankets with his sleepy attention on the telly, but his cheeks were terribly flushed from coughing. Q turned to look at him when Bond sat down on the couch beside him. He blinked at the soup and Bond saw his almost immediate disinterest in eating. But he was not about to give up, especially when Q had eaten nothing substantial in over twenty-four hours.

 

“Just try to have a bit,” Bond said, before Q could refuse him.

 

“Only if I can take these off...” he replied hoarsely, moving his arm beneath the blankets as indication to what he meant.

 

“Just for a minute,” Bond conceded, and Q pushed them off immediately. He took a breath as if he had been unable to do so before and coughed weakly. Then he straightened up, holding out his hands for the soup. Bond had put it into an over sized coffee mug so that Q did not have to balance a bowl and a spoon. He seemed to appreciate it, only needing a brief moment of Bond’s help to get his fingers around the handle correctly. After one aborted attempt and Bond’s insistence that he drink whatever he could, Q took a sip of the soup. He made a face at it.

 

“Salty,” he said.

 

“Blame Eve. She bought it,” Bond replied, as Q took another sip.

 

“Eve?” Q repeated, and looked at Bond with a partially raised eyebrow. “You let her in?”

 

“She would have broken down the door otherwise.”

 

“It’s a sturdy door...”

 

“You know Eve.”

 

Q hummed in agreement and drank some more of his soup. Bond did not continue the conversation, not just because thinking of Eve made him remember all of the things he did not want to prematurely bring up at that moment, but because Q’s voice sounded frail, as if speaking pained him. They lulled into a comfortable sort of silence, punctuated only by the soft dialogue on the telly and the sometimes-interruptive coughing fits Q tried to smother beneath his heap of blankets.

 

By the time the episode had concluded, Q had finished most of his soup. He had started nodding off round the forty-five minute mark of the programme and Bond knew it was a lost cause from there. At least Q had ingested something other than water and he seemed to be holding it down without much effort, which marked a drastic improvement from that afternoon.

 

Not wanting to wake Q from his first non-medically induced doze in hours, Bond carefully took the cup from his lax hands and covered him back up to keep warm. Then he quietly stood and went into the kitchen, where he placed the cup and saucepan in the sink. After that, Bond proceeded to make himself a simple dinner that did not require time or too many ingredients. He ate it standing at the kitchen counter, watching the telly with numb disinterest. Despite the fact that he had not eaten all day, Bond had to force himself to consume the entirety of his grilled cheese sandwich. He did not even taste it.

 

Afterward, Bond left the dishes in the sink, not wanting to make too much noise. He shut out the lights and went back into the living room, where he took a seat at the unoccupied end of the sofa. While flipping through channels in search of something to catch his interest, Bond moved his hand to lightly rest it over Q’s ankle. He kept it there (to comfort himself or Q, he was not sure) as he settled on a history programme, which he watched with the telly muted. Q slept through it and almost the entirety of the next episode, until his wet, rattling breaths were cut short when he woke himself coughing. Bond slid his palm up and down the length of Q’s leg until the fit passed.

 

When he stopped, Q dropped his head back onto the pillow. Each wheezing breath he took was punctuated by a soft sound of pain, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Bond waited for him to calm, but it did not happen right away. The minutes dragged by, seeming like an eternity before Q’s cries quieted. But Bond’s anxiety lingered, sharpening again when he laid a hand across Q’s forehead and felt the strength of the fever returning. Beneath him, it sounded like nothing short of a struggle for Q to take in enough air. He pushed back Q’s damp fringe to look at him. Glazed green eyes regarded him, dazed and unfocused. Bond felt the _wrongness_ of it climbing up hard and hot in his throat and he wondered if he should contact Medical.

 

Instead he asked:

 

“Alright?”

 

Bond had probably never asked that so many times in one day before.

 

“Mn,” was Q’s noncommittal reply. Bond smoothed his hair back gently, trying to get Q to focus on him. It was much like that afternoon, when Q had been so tightly in the grip of fever that he kept slipping in and out of consciousness. After visible effort, Q managed to add: “Hurts.”

 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Bond said, and began to unravel Q from the cocoon of blankets. He helped Q from the couch, pausing every few steps when he felt the other man sway or tremble in his grasp. They were just at the doorway to the bedroom when Q’s last bit of strength gave out. Bond felt his shaking intensify, then his knees buckle and give way. It was only thanks to years of training his reflexes that Bond managed to catch him before he fell. Bond eased him down to the ground, supporting Q as another fit overtook him.

 

When it passed, Q leaned against Bond weakly, exhausted and shivering. Thinking it for the best, Bond hooked one arm under Q's knees and the other around his back and shoulders. Then he picked Q up and carried him the rest of the way, ignoring Q's half-hearted sound of protest. It was not far and Bond was grateful; he was not as young as he used to be and despite Q's slight appearance, Bond's old shoulder wound twinged at his weight.

 

He laid Q down onto his side of the bed as gently as he could, his mouth pressed into a thin line at the pained sound his lover made the moment he touched the mattress. He immediately began coughing again, wet and heavy and seemingly unrelenting. There was nothing Bond could do except offer comfort where he could as Q drifted at the fringes of consciousness for the next hour. He brought out the cold compresses again and then, when Q finally stopped coughing, a few glasses of cool water. It was some time before Bond thought him able to take the medicine he desperately needed. Then Bond sat by his side as the narcotic took hold, drawing Q into a deep sleep.

 

Once his breathing evened out, Bond put his head into his hands, ran his fingers over the stubble he had not bothered to shave. Behind him, Q shivered, and Bond straightened up and turned around to cover him up with the duvet. Not wanting to leave him, Bond turned out the light and lay down next to Q, pressing against him to offer additional warmth. It seemed like forever before his shivering subsided.

 

Despite the resurgence of exhaustion creeping into his body, Bond did not sleep. He thrummed with the adrenalin and anxiety that Q’s state had brought upon him, mind racing with all the thoughts and concerns that had been mounting throughout the day. Bond debated on calling a medical professional to seek advice. Did fevers usually take this long to break? Was bronchitis always this bad or was it getting worse? Should he take Q to the A & E? He had a feeling Q would be furious about being admitted to the hospital, but what if it was necessary?

 

Q trembled in his arms and Bond pulled him closer, wondering what to do besides what he had been doing. Q seemed to be declining rather than improving and if Bond knew that he would not be made fun of for overreacting, he might have contacted Eve.

 

After some time, Q eventually settled and stilled. His breathing sounded terrible and his body was still too hot, but he finally slept. Bond remained still beside him, with no desire to be anywhere else. He might have dozed. He thought about the teas in the cabinet and the clothes in their shared wardrobe and the coffee that Q kept in the flat specifically for him. He imagined dressing Q in Saville Row and taking him to the finest restaurant in London for the evening and then dancing with him and then taking him back to this bed and making love to him. He pondered selling his flat for good and moving in with Q permanently despite what that would do for the rumour mill at MI6. He dreamed about having Q for the rest of his days, which in his mind was not next week or next month or next year, but thirty or forty years from now. He mused how it was all so unexpected of him, James Bond, to fall so terribly hard for another man, but could not find any sort of disappointment or discontentment because of it. Instead, he felt nothing but happiness that someone wanted him, for all his scars and nightmares and bad habits and the overwhelming probability of at least thirty different terrorist organisations around the globe that wanted to hunt him down and kill him. Q took all of it without blinking, without breaking stride, as if those things did not matter in the slightest. 

 

_You’re in love with him._

 

Is that what love was?

 

_You need to tell him._

 

Bond woke suddenly, unbearably overheated, as if he had lain out in the Mediterranean sun for too many hours. It took him a moment to sort through his sleep-addled brain to figure out why a November evening in London could feel like the height of summer. Then his awareness returned. Although he had gone to bed with his arm around Q, trying to keep his chills at bay with body heat, he must have turned over in his sleep when the other man became too warm.

 

“Q,” he said, addressing the strip of heat against his back. Q did not reply to him. His breaths came out hard and rasping; Bond could feel the tug and release of each one against his shoulder. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The face of his watch told him it was nearly two in the morning. Rubbing a hand over his face, Bond pushed himself up on one elbow to sit up a little further in bed. Q’s body shifted behind him with the movement, but he did not wake. He laid his palm across Q’s forehead; his skin felt like fire.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Bond murmured, pushing back Q’s damp fringe.

 

As much as he did not want to leave Q, Bond got up out of bed and went into the bathroom. He ran a flannel under the tap with one hand, searching through the medicine cabinet and nearby drawers with the other. When the flannel was sufficiently damp and cool and Bond had located the paracetamol and a thermometer, he returned to the bedroom. Q had moved to Bond’s side of the bed, curled up in the place where he had been not moments before, as if still seeking his warmth. His body shivered violently under the duvet.

 

Bond put the items down on his nightstand and, not caring about their unspoken claims to a specific side of the bed, manoeuvred the sick man onto his back as tenderly as he could manage. Unfortunately, that did not stop the small sound of pain that escaped Q’s throat. His weak breaths came erratically at the change of position, and Bond feared he might be having a mild panic attack. As he placed the cool flannel on Q’s forehead, Bond murmured apologies and stroked at sweat-damp hair to try to ease his suffering. It might have been a combination of Bond’s hand and voice and the soothing compress that eventually calmed Q down. His breathing still came out harsh and forced, but at least even. To ensure he was alright, Bond kept two fingers pressed against the inside of Q’s right wrist and waited until his rapid pulse returned to normal. After a long few moments, it slowed to a suitable resting rate, and Bond felt some of his tension dissipate, only to have it return after taking Q’s temperature.

 

“Fuck...” Bond breathed out. 39.5 was nothing to scoff at. Q might need to go to A & E, and soon, if it kept up. But how long was too long to wait? Bond wasn't sure he could wait any longer and he was just about to get up and get his coat when he reassessed the situation. The A & E was closer, but Medical would have all of Q’s relevant files. At the same time, getting Q to either would require moving him, which inspired great pain, even with the most careful of adjustments on Bond’s part. Calling for an ambulance would get Q on location quickly, but Bond knew that paramedics were more concerned with speed than gentle care, which Q desperately needed. Bond did not think he could stand the sight of gloved hands brutally manhandling Q onto a stretcher; Q looked so fragile to begin with that Bond feared they might literally break him.

 

So, Bond improvised. Half the time, he made his living off fast-acting ingenuity, and this was no exception. Q’s fever needed to be brought down, and quickly.

 

Bond hurried into the kitchen and immediately opened the freezer. Previously, it had been a desolate wasteland of nothing but frozen shelves and cylinders of liquid nitrogen (which Q swore he used solely as a coolant for his personal server room in the study). As the months passed, Bond not only moved some of his clothes to Q’s flat, but also began stocking the bare cabinets and empty refrigerator in hopes that the other man might learn to feed himself if the food was readily available. Unfortunately that plan did not seem to be working (if the expiration date on the milk was anything to go by), but thankfully it meant there was a wide variety of frozen foods that Bond could use to his advantage. He took out a few bags of frozen noodles and vegetables, grabbed a handful of tea towels from the drawer nearest the stove, and returned to the bedroom.

 

It looked as if Q had not moved from his position, but he must have, as the flannel now lay beside him on the pillow. Bond replaced it, not missing relieved little breath Q let out when the cool fabric came in contact with his burning forehead. Immediately, Bond went to work, wrapping the bagged foodstuffs in tea towels. He placed two at the pulse points in Q’s wrists and two more at the backs of his knees; the remaining two he pressed against the arches of his feet. Q made an effort to move away from the cold packs, but did not have enough strength to break away from Bond’s steady hold on him. When his body began to tremble at the cold compresses, Bond pulled the duvet over his lover and gently held him still.

 

Over the next hour, Bond replaced the bags three times. It brought Q’s temperature down in stages, from 39.5 to 39, before finally dropping beneath 39 to hover between 38.8. and 38.9. Despite his best attempts, Bond could not get Q to take any water, let alone Panadol, and because of that his fever began climbing again close to four in the morning.

 

Bond kept up with the frozen foods until he ran out, what with the previous packages still too-warm to use. He then switched back to cold compresses and, because Q refused water, began force-feeding him small ice chips. But it was all for naught. At a quarter til five, Q’s fever skyrocketed so high that Bond knew he would have to call an ambulance if he could not bring it down. Bond might have prayed to gods he did not believe in for some kind of help. Shortly after, the fever broke on its own. Bond swore that he felt it himself, like a disconnect, when the tension in Q’s body ebbed along with the heat.  He breathed out a shaky breath, felt his shoulders relax for the first time in hours. It would be alright. Q would be alright. Everything would be alright. Bond leaned over and kissed Q's forehead, letting his lips brush over his warm brow. Unawares and no longer in the clutches of pain and fever, Q slept.

 

Bond laid down beside him and finally did, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Conversions for the Americans**
> 
>  
> 
> 23.8/24 degrees C = ~75 degrees F
> 
> 38.7 degrees C = 101.6 degrees F
> 
> 38.5 degrees C = 101.3 degrees F
> 
> 38.8 degrees C = 101.9 degrees F
> 
> 39.4 degrees C =102.9 degrees F
> 
> 39 degrees C = 102.3 degrees F
> 
> 38.9 degrees C = 102 degrees F
> 
>  
> 
> **Additional Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> Etno Gaivi Akimirka tea is like...uh...tea made from Thyme (I think?) It kind of tastes like Echinacea but is so much more delicious. Well, maybe it's an acquired taste? Everyone I know doesn't like it but I think that it tastes pretty good!
> 
> Bond has Moneypenny in his contacts list as 001 003 because of this reason: 001 is MI6’s top division, so M’s ID number would be 001. Any person in Mallory’s division would have the division number 001 followed by a secondary number that ranked them within the department. As Tanner is M’s Chief of Staff, he would most likely be 001 002 with Moneypenny the next in line of importance as M’s executive secretary, making her 001 003. I based this concept off the ID badges seen in Skyfall. For those of you curious, Q is 008 001 (designating Q-Division as 008 and Q’s head position as 001). I only know all of this because of the research I had to do to make a prop badge for my Q cosplay haha -lame-
> 
>  **Request?**  
>  Please let me know if you find any glaring errors xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really sorry for the delay on this guys. Life things happen, but also writer things happen. I had the majority of this written and then stared at it for weeks, wondering what felt wrong about it. Well, thanks to my roommate (and published author) Sheepie, I was able to figure out exactly where I made my mistake and got my creative juices flowing again. Big thanks to all her help in talking it out with me~
> 
> Also, because the final chapter is a monstrous beast, I've divided it into two chapters, hence the final chapter count jumping from 4 chapters to 5.
> 
> Enjoy~!

 

 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

Q woke slowly, as if coming out of a long hibernation. His eyes felt gritty with sleep and his throat was unbearably dry. He swallowed a few times despite the pain that it caused, wincing when he slid his tongue over his cracked lips and they burned. It took a while before he managed to open his eyes completely. The room around him sat dark and quiet; he heard the gentle patter of rain hitting the window and the muted sounds of traffic passing on the street below. Q began doze off again amidst the peaceful surroundings, but he pointedly forced himself awake, sensing that he had been asleep for more than his usual few hours and that he needed to get up.

 

Doing so was a chore.

 

Q’s head and chest felt unbelievably heavy; his bones and muscles ached as if strained from physical activity, but his limbs shook weakly from disuse. His vision swam and his arms trembled under his weight as he pushed himself upright to lean back against the headboard. He coughed, cringing against the hot, raw pain in his lungs and throat. Unconsciously, Q reached to the right--Bond’s side of the bed--but found it empty. Maybe he sought comfort, he was not sure, but the sheets were cold and Q knew then that Bond had not been beside him recently. Q blamed whatever illness he had that made him feel noticeably disappointed at this fact.

 

He tried not to think about it and instead created a mental list of things he needed to do that very moment: find his glasses, use the toilet, drink a massive quantity of some kind of liquid, and then find something for his damaged lips. Afterward he could think about other important things, like showering and finding something to eat. Only when those requirements were sated could Q even begin to analyse his current Bond Conundrum.

 

His glasses sat on the bedside cabinet, and once Q put them on, the room came into sharper focus. The door to the bedroom stood partially closed, but Q heard nothing from beyond it out in the living room, signifying that he was, in fact, alone. How long, Q could not be sure. There were traces of Bond’s presence everywhere. On the floor near Bond’s side of the bed, Q saw an unpacked travelling bag and a small pile of laundry that most certainly had not been there when Q had come home. Bond had also left his dressing gown draped over the foot board, which Q also knew had not been there previously. He smoothed his hand over the sheets. They were the spare set he kept in the linen closet, which he rotated out whenever the others were in the wash. They had most definitely not been on the bed when he fell asleep. How long ago had that been?

 

Q rubbed his aching temple, unable to recall when he had fallen asleep or when Bond had returned. Bond must have come back sometime while he was resting, though how he had managed to do things like change the sheets without Q waking was beyond his comprehension. Perhaps the medicine was to blame? Q looked over at his bedside table again. There were two glasses of water on the night table--one full, one half full--his prescription bottle of cough suppressant, a strip of unopened Panadol tablets, and a jar of Vicks Vaporub.

 

Had Bond gone out and gotten it all for him, knowing he might need it to take care of himself when he woke? Q thought it was rather thoughtful of Bond, but could not contemplate it long. He coughed again, then helped himself to both glasses of water and a Panadol for the various aches in his body. He passed on the suppressant, not wanting to go back to sleep just yet. Besides, the clock told him it was already eleven in the morning; he had to get ready to go to work. He coughed again, so hard that he saw stars, and Q retracted his idea almost immediately, thinking maybe it would be best to work...remotely today. He could do just as much damage at MI6 as he could do from the comfort of his own warm bed...

 

But that would be later.

 

Weakly, Q worked on getting out of bed. He still had to piss, and all the water and coughing had not helped that matter. Thankfully no one was there to bear witness to his pathetic journey to the bathroom. It was less of a walk and more of a zombie stumble, characterised by Q intermittently coughing while holding onto every available surface or wall on the way to keep himself from falling down. But he was determined and managed to get there with (some) of his dignity intact.

 

After relieving himself, Q spent almost ten minutes brushing his teeth and washing up in the sink so that he could feel a bit more human. Unfortunately, when he caught sight of himself in the mirror--unshaven, greasy haired, dark half moons under his eyes, hollow cheeks, and, _God_ was he really that _pale_ all the time?--Q could only think that he looked less alive and more like death warmed over.

 

Despite his shaky balance and the weakness that seemed to consume his entire body, Q thought it desperately necessary to shave and have a shower. It was a short affair, but one that left him feeling less gritty in the eyes and mouth and a lot cleaner everywhere else. He shivered and coughed on his way back to the bedroom, which felt unreasonably cold upon his shower-warm skin. He dressed in his warmest pyjamas and socks to combat the chill. On his way back out to the living room, he nicked Bond’s dressing gown and pulled it on, justifying his choice that if Bond did not want him to touch his things, he should not leave them out in plain sight.

 

Q pulled the collar up around his ears as he slowly made his way to the kitchen. He did not have as many issues with balance as before, just general weakness and fatigue that kept him from moving quickly. He spent that long walk breathing in the scent of Bond’s particular brand of shampoo and the slight undercurrent of his cologne. It comforted Q more than he realised. It was almost like having Bond there with him...

 

...whom he _absolutely did not need_.

 

Q sighed and squeezed at the bridge of his nose, blaming the dull heaviness still lingering behind his eyes on such thoughts. What he needed was a cup of tea; tea solved everything. And his in state of hibernation for God-knew-how-long, Q had a feeling one of the reasons for his muddled thoughts and aching body was the fact that he had not consumed a good cuppa recently.

 

The drapes had been pulled in the living area, leaving that space and the adjoining kitchen darkened enough that Q did not have to deal with the pain and discomfort of unnecessary light. He filled the kettle with water and placed it on the hob, coughing as he did so. While waiting for the water to boil, Q rubbed at his aching chest and pulled down a mug from the cupboard. He ran through the rest of his routine on a slow version of autopilot, only returning from automatic when he had settled on the sofa with his steaming cup on the coffee table in front of him.

 

Q could not say exactly when it happened, but he might have had a sip or two of tea before deciding to have a lie down on the couch. He had worked hard for it, he decided, after all that standing and walking and moving he had done. Time crawled after that, it seemed, but perhaps it did not, what with his perception being slightly disjointed. Sometimes Q could hear the rain outside and the pipes rattling in the building, but other times there was nothing but blissful, peaceful quiet. It was nice, Q mused in his half-daydreaming, half-sleeping state. It was nice, but he found himself wishing for the warmth of another body against him: the comfort of a familiar arm over his waist, breath in his hair, the scrape of ticklish stubble against his shoulder…

 

Distantly, he heard the door open and then shut, followed by soft footsteps moving about the flat. They stopped near him and Q felt his glasses gently removed. A warm blanket fell over his shoulders. Q blinked open his eyes. The room was blurry and grey and unlit; the person beside him was tall and dressed in dark clothes. He could not see his face, but Q knew him. He would know him anywhere.

 

“James,” he said, with certainty. Bond came closer and sat at the edge of the sofa next to him. He smelled like rain and car exhaust.

 

“Should I ask what you’re doing up out of bed?” he asked, as his fingers came to Q’s still-shower-damp hair. Q hummed as Bond stroked through the strands just the way he liked it.

 

“Tea,” Q replied. He licked his lips, realising then that he had never found something to help with the chapped skin there.

 

“Of course,” Bond said, and Q did not have to see his face to know that he was smiling.

 

“Help me up?” Q asked, holding out his hand for aid. Bond pulled him into a sitting position and then propped him up against the pillow. Q blinked and looked around at the blurry room, only having it become clear when Bond provided him his glasses. It seemed darker than before, even with the curtains drawn. He wondered how long he had been asleep.

 

“You’re wearing my dressing gown,” Bond said, running his fingers along the sleeve of the housecoat.

 

“It’s warm,” Q said, somewhat defensively, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks as he bundled further into the fabric. Bond laughed that gentle, rolling laugh of his that did things to Q he did not want to admit.

 

“I don’t mind,” he replied and Q knew he was definitely blushing and for _no good reason, honestly_. Bond continued to smile and Q fought the urge to respond in kind, because _really what was wrong with him_?

 

Q cleared his throat, searching for a change of subject that might distract his thoughts.

 

“Where’s my phone?” he asked weakly.

 

“You need to rest,” Bond answered.

 

“Doesn’t answer the question as to where my phone is,” Q pointed out, his voice giving out at the last few syllables. When he tried to clear his throat again, he ended up coughing. Bond put a hand on his shoulder, and it took Q a moment to realise that he was trying to get him to lean back against the pillows again. Q did as Bond wanted, but the other man did not pull his hand away.

 

“No mobile, no tablet, no computer. You’re not doing _any_ work for the next few days,” Bond said sternly. That certainly woke Q up quickly.

 

“ _Next few days_? Are you _mad_?” Q cried, trying to resist the gentle pressure against his shoulder, but Bond kept him in place.

 

“It’s not like governments will fall--”

 

“You say that now--”

 

“Governments _won’t_ fall, Q.”

 

“Not worried about the governments, James.”

 

“What are you worried about?”

 

“Everything else: terrorists, arms dealers, the stock market...those people... who like Top 40 radio--”

 

“Q--”

 

“No, we really should be worried about the people who like Top 40 radio--”

 

“Q--”

 

“Really a plague on society--”

 

“Q, you’re rambling,” Bond said, with nothing but fondness. Even Q was not deaf to it. He stopped talking and looked down at the blanket, twisting the fabric between his fingers, all the while blaming his uncontrolled blushing on his illness. That had to be the reason, because even Bond at his most charming had not provoked this sort of reaction out of him. The only thing Q could think to do was try to gain control of the conversation.

 

“How long have I been out?” he asked, pragmatically.

 

“Since Thursday,” Bond said.

 

“What’s today?” Q asked.

 

Bond tried to stall, Q could tell, but the way it seemed like he was not trying to stall for time by smoothing out the folds of the blanket draped over Q’s body.

“Saturday,” he finally said.

 

Q sat up and gripped at his chest.

 

“Oh god, I think I’m having a coronary.”

 

So much for gaining control of the situation.

 

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

 

“I’ve been out for _two_ days.”

 

“Yes, and a few more won’t hurt,” Bond said, trying to get him back into a reclining position again, but Q fought him.

 

“Top 40 Radio aside, James, there _are_ a lot of things that I _have to_ worry about,” Q replied, running a careless hand through his hair as he thought about all of the paperwork on his desk, the R &D projects that had probably gotten backed up without his sign-off authorisation, 004’s (hopefully still on-going) deep cover mission in Kiev, and the fact that he let R-- _oh God_ , R--in charge of the entire branch. “Holy...I left R in charge…” Q began, pulling at his fringe. “If we’re not at war with the entirety of the Middle East, we soon will be.”

 

“Q--”

 

“What was I _thinking_?”

 

“Q--”

 

“She’s a high-functioning sociopath and I left the entire _branch_ in her care--”

 

“Q,” Bond said, putting his hands on top of Q’s. He smiled at him and Q stopped, became more serious.

 

“When did you get back?” Q asked.

 

“Thursday.”

 

“How was Spain?”

 

“No work talk.”

 

“But--”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I just want to--”

 

“Not a word. You’re not going to even be _thinking_ about work until you’re better.”

 

Q glared at him, knowing that the effect was not quite the same when his hair stood up in a mess and he was wrapped up in an overly fluffy dressing gown while half-drowned in blankets. He tried anyway, and Bond just ended up smiling at him affectionately again, bringing up a hand to Q’s messy hair. He tried to smooth it down with the palm of his hand, but judging from the look on his face, it was to no avail. It was then that Q realised something Bond had said and that infuriatingly inconvenient blush began to return.

 

“So you’ve...been in London since Thursday?” Q asked, trying to sound casual despite how careful he was with the words.

 

“I’ve been here,” Bond said.

 

“Here...as in London?” Q could feel the flush threatening the back of his neck, burning up to the tips of his ears.

 

“Here as in here,” Bond told him.

 

“Here,” Q repeated, looking around the room so that he did not have to look at Bond when he continued: “While I was... uh, sick?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The whole time?”

 

“Of course,” Bond said, seriousness colouring his tone. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone. Do you have any idea how ill you were?”

 

“Oh god…”

 

Q put his head into his hands, crushing his glasses against his face. As much as he wanted to be glad that Bond stuck around, he felt _mortified_. Their...arrangement was supposed to be purely physical; a pleasurable sometimes-thing with no messy expectations. The whole point was that they were not obligated to do the things expected of a normal partner, like talking about _feelings_ and the _future_ and going on dates and doing the shopping and taking care of one another when sick. Although Q would have done it for Bond without thinking (and he was not going to lie and say that the only reason he would do it was because he was Bond’s Quartermaster, because that would just be untruthful) that did not mean he expected the other man to do the same.

 

But Bond had.

 

James I-Don’t-Do-Real-Relationships-Because-I’m-A-Closeted-Emotional-Trainwreck Bond had taken care of him.

 

The blush intensified as Q realised that Bond had not only seen him at his weakest (which wounded his pride deeply), but also at his most unattractive. One could only look so good when covered in fever-sweat and coughing up massive quantities of mucus. He groaned, twisting his fingers into his hair, clenching unforgivingly at the strands. So much for ever having sex with Bond again.

 

“Q?”

 

“I really hope I’m hallucinating this entire conversation.”

 

Bond laughed and Q wanted nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow him.

 

“You’re embarrassed.”

 

“No.”

 

Q felt the gentle glide of one of Bond’s fingertips along the back of his burning neck.

 

“You’re blushing,” he said.

 

“I’ve got a fever,” Q grumbled.

 

“No you don’t. It broke yesterday,” Bond said, definitely laughing at him.

 

“Just leave me alone,” Q mumbled.

 

“I couldn’t even if I tried. Or wanted to try, for that matter.”

 

Q heard the words, but it took a moment for the meaning to sink in completely. He hesitantly peeked out at Bond from between his fingers. Bond stared back at him with a level expression, obviously waiting, but giving nothing away.

 

“I...don’t know what that means,” Q admitted, because he had a pretty good idea, but he was not about to have _that conversation_. Not right now. Not when he was not even wearing proper trousers.  

 

Something like disappointment flickered in Bond’s eyes, but it was gone before Q could clearly identify it as such.

 

“Never mind. We’ll talk about it later,” Bond said, as he stood up to full height. “Now, what about lunch?”

 

* * *

 

Bond was an infuriatingly conscientious caretaker, which was something that Q grudgingly appreciated, but had not expected. With a stern sort of gentleness, Bond forced Q to rest for the next two days, keeping him confined to bed or the sofa all while prohibiting him access to anything that had a wireless connection. Completely immobile, Q found himself at Bond’s mercy for everything. And Bond was _good at it_. He seemed to know exactly what Q needed without him ever having to ask: food, water, medicine, terribly wonderful back massages... Sometimes, even before Q knew what he wanted, Bond would appear with an extra blanket or a cup of tea.

 

He never left Q for very long. In fact, the longest he had been gone was the day he found Q on the couch. Apparently he had pushed off debriefing too long and Mallory had finally issued an order to call him in. With that out of the way, Bond stayed home, with the excuse that he did not want to be far from Q while he recovered. Q thought it unnecessary, but allowed Bond to coddle him, not because he needed it, but because it fascinated him to see Bond in such a domestic environment.

 

He thought Bond would be climbing the walls with boredom and unused energy, but he seemed calm and comfortable with the situation. If Q fell asleep, he would always wake to Bond’s warmth beside him or to the quiet sounds of him moving about the flat. Bond cooked and cleaned like he had been doing it his entire life; Q had never seen linens folded so perfectly and had not a clue that Bond could actually cook with surprisingly natural talent.  And although Q found Bond’s actions endearing (secretly, _very secretly_ ) it also made him feel a bit embarrassed that Bond thought him incapable of taking care of himself. Bond kept him on a strict regimen of healthy foods and gratuitous fluids, all while ensuring that Q did not even get a toe out of bed without him knowing. In addition, Bond gave him little privacy in the bathroom (stating something about concern for Q falling and hurting himself) which meant that the agent either watched him or stood directly outside the door. There was nothing more nerve-racking than trying to have a morning piss with a trained killer looking over your shoulder.

 

But Q let him stay. After all, it seemed that Bond really did want to be there--that he _was_ concerned--so Q doubted that anything he could say would be able to get him to leave. And he was content to have him around, because Bond did make an exceptionally comfortable pillow. However, the real world beckoned. Monday came and went, with Bond all but having to handcuff him to the bed to prevent Q from escaping to MI6.

 

“James, I need to go to work,” he groaned, after the _n_ th time of having Bond drag him back to bed.

 

“You’re still not strong enough,” Bond said, sitting him down on the mattress, where he heaped the duvet and a heavy blanket over him. Before Q could protest, Bond tossed a light throw over his head, and Q wrestled with it until he managed to free himself. He did not have to see his hair to know it was particularly mussed up.

 

“I’m plenty strong, you just won’t let me up for more than five seconds to prove it,” Q whined, knowing that at this point it was much too late to attempt to _not_ be petulant.

 

“You can barely stay awake for an entire afternoon. How do you plan on running a branch?” Bond asked.

 

Q was going to argue back, but an attack of painful coughing left him drained and unable to formulate an effective retort. He eventually (grumpily) conceded that Bond was right and (knowing that sneaking past a highly trained secret agent was impossible) gave in. He spent the rest of the day sprawled out on top of the other man as Bond read the newspaper in bed and then resumed that same position later when they spent a quiet afternoon watching movies in the living room. It felt good to be a bit lazy, especially with a pleasantly warm body beneath him that smelled like ink and freshly laundered cotton and a hint of Bond’s delectable aftershave. But even though Q was slow to recover--still subject to coughing fits and low grade morning fevers that faded after a few hours--he knew he had to go back to work eventually.

 

“Let me go in for just an hour or so,” Q begged, flushed but determined on Tuesday morning. Bond refused him again because of his temperature, but after his fever faded, he did let Q have his tablet so that he could check his emails. He managed to get through about one hundred or so before exhausting himself, and Q must have fallen asleep, but bugger all if he could remember exactly _when_.  

 

“How are things?” Bond asked, as Q slowly stirred awake from his impromptu nap. He had a freshly brewed cup of tea with him and Q sleepily made grabby hands at it until Bond gave it over.

 

“Fucked,” Q said, as Bond settled on the bed next to him. He took a sip of his tea and its perfection--the right amount of sugar, the correct two and a half minute steep time, the ideal warmth--eased some of his concern over the state of affairs at MI6. Despite this, Q remained pragmatic. He had not been to work in almost a week. Things would soon be at a standstill without him; R could only do so much with her clearance. Q ran a tired hand over his face, already thinking about the piles of paperwork he would need to go through upon his return.

 

“I’ll need to go in tonight.”

 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Bond replied.

 

“I’ve got to go back sooner or later,” Q pointed out.

 

“And you’ll go back later, when you’re well,” Bond said.  

 

Before Q could argue, Bond took the half finished cup of tea from Q and set it on the night table. Then he shifted behind Q and began rubbing his thumbs in tight little circles over his back. Immediately, Q dropped his head and felt the fight leave him entirely.

 

“If you feel up to it, you can go in for a little while tomorrow morning,” Bond said, working the tension out of Q with the expertise of someone who knew his body intimately.

 

“First thing, then,” Q murmured, as Bond kneaded his way down his spine.

 

“We’ll see,” Bond answered, but Q was a bit too distracted to argue.  

 

* * *

 

They did end up going to MI6 first thing the next morning, but not to Q-Branch. Q did not realise this at first (still groggy due waking up early and exhausted from the five flights of stairs in combination with his seemingly-habitual morning fever) but felt betrayed when they suddenly appeared outside of Medical.

 

“You lied to me,” Q said accusingly, huddling further into the sleeves of his oversized jumper.

 

“Not necessarily. I said I would bring you to MI6 first thing in the morning, didn’t I?” Bond asked, grinning.

 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Q asked miserably.

 

“No, of course not,” he said, leading Q into the medical bay.

 

Q held back his retort, because Sarah appeared as they entered, her clipboard and his file in her hand just like the previous week. She wore no mask this time, but her expression still came across as stern as it did kind. Unlike the last time Q had seen her, she seemed much more well-rested. He thought that might have to do with the fact that Medical was (finally) entirely empty of patients.

 

“Quartermaster,” she greeted, but her gaze narrowed and fell slightly confused on Bond. “007.”

 

“Sarah,” Bond said politely.

 

“It seems the pandemic had passed,” Q said, before she could ask about Bond’s presence there.

 

“For now. It’s good to have you back,” she said.

 

“I should have been back days ago,” Q replied, pointedly glaring at Bond.

 

“Not in your state,” she said, looking him up and down. “In fact, I would say not even now.”

 

“For the love of--I’m _fine_ ,” Q said and Sarah just raised a doubtful eyebrow at him.

 

“Hmm, yes, because you seem to be doing well standing on your own,” Sarah replied and Q looked down. Unthinking, he had been leaning on Bond’s arm for support, as had become second nature during the last few days of his recovery. He felt a heady blush climbing up the back of his neck and went silent, his still-foggy brain unable to think of anything to say in reply. Despite this, he did not let go of Bond, and Sarah smirked-- _smirked_ \--at him as she put her hands on her hips. The stance reminded him of Eve, and Q could only hope that they had not joined forces in his absence. England would fall. “Definitely not back to 110%, that much is certain. Well, let’s have a look at you. Follow me.”

 

She made for the door that led to the back maze of examination rooms and held it open for him.

 

“If you would wait here, 007. It shouldn’t be long,” Sarah said, gesturing to the empty chairs about the room.

 

“It’s fine if he comes with,” Q said, not releasing Bond’s arm, and to Sarah’s questioning look, Q replied before his brain could catch up with his mouth: “We’re together.”

 

The words had their impact. Q felt Bond tense minutely beside him as Sarah tried to smooth her shocked expression into something more nonchalant.

 

_Fuck._

 

_Fuck, fuck, buggering fuck._

 

“I mean, that is, we, er,” Q floundered for words, feeling the embarrassed rise of heat in his cheeks at the scrutiny from both parties. He did not know how to fix it, because he had very clearly said _we’re together_ and that did not mean _we’re living together_ or _we’re just shagging_ because it meant, with undeniable clarity, that they were _together_ as a couple, as two people who did more than just shag and sometimes live together. But they _weren’t_ together, not like that. They had agreed, after all, but Q had... forgotten over the past few days, what with Bond doing all the things that he did not have to do, like he _wanted_ to do them. Q had gotten confused, because it did not mean anything, not really, and because of that he felt nothing but rife embarrassment at making such a mistake.

 

Talk about _open mouth, insert foot._

 

Fortunately, he was spared from having to continue when the urge to cough hit him, and Q willingly gave into it. Bond must have used that as his excuse to not comment on what he had said and to also usher him past Sarah into the back examination room. But the moment they were behind the privacy screen, Q suddenly wished that Bond would have waited outside. He was painfully aware of the other man as Sarah examined him, tutting once again about his weight and still-too-low blood pressure, before bombarding him with questions about his illness that Q could not answer.

 

“I was a bit unconscious at the time,” Q said, in his own defence. By the time he had admitted to not being able to answer several more of her questions, Bond broke his silence and began giving Sarah the information she needed. Q steadily became more and more desperate for the power of invisibility as the proceedings continued, and pointedly stared at the wall so that he did not have to look at either of them.

 

“With a fever like that, you should have been admitted to the A&E,” Sarah said to Q, once Bond had finished. Q merely shrugged and did not say anything, though he silently thanked Bond for his decision. The last thing he needed was to be laid up in the hospital. They would be worse than Bond about letting him get out and back to work.

 

“Just wasting my breath, aren’t I? The two of you must be the worst patients MI6 has ever seen,” Sarah said, shaking her head as she removed her stethoscope from around her neck.

 

“We both strive to overachieve,” Bond said, and Q fought a grin. Sarah just rolled her eyes at the both of them.

 

“As lovely as it is to know you are both so dedicated,” she drawled, “that does not mean you have to strive so frequently to bleed to death--” she glared at Bond, “--or overwork yourself into an early grave.” The last part was for Q, and he managed to give her his best innocent look, though judging from her unamused expression, she did not buy it.

 

“But if we’re good, then it would be so boring for you,” Bond said.

 

“Oh, yes, because things are not already exciting enough when I see more gunshot wounds than paper cuts,” Sarah replied, as she fitted the stethoscope tips into her ears and pressed the diaphragm piece against Q’s chest. Bond obediently fell quiet as she worked and began asking Q to breathe as deeply as he could at certain points and cough at others. Once again, she lingered on his right lung, which she listened to intently for a long time. Bond must have noticed too, because Q could all but feel his prickling tension from the corner behind him.

 

“The worst has passed,” Sarah said, once she straightened and replaced her stethoscope around her neck. “but your lungs are still a bit inflamed from the bronchitis. That’s why you’re slow to recover.” She picked up his file and looked at the top page. “Are you still taking the cough medicine I prescribed?”

 

“Yes,” Q replied, as he buttoned up the front of his shirt. “I take a half-dose every night to help me sleep.” What he did not say was that he only took it because he knew that every time he coughed, it woke Bond up immediately. He was a light sleeper to begin with, but even more so when he thought Q was in need of his care. Reasons aside, Sarah seemed happy with the answer and made a note on his chart.

 

“I’m going to prescribe you something that you can take during the day,” Sarah said, as she began to write on a prescription pad. “It’s an inhaler with a low-dosage steroid that will help with the inflammation. Within the week, you should be able to feel a difference.” She ripped off the page and handed it to Q.

 

“So am I cleared to go back to work?” Q asked, folding the paper in half. Sarah faced him, but Q saw her attention flicker to Bond and he could only wonder what sort of variation of _no_ he was pantomiming at her behind his back.

 

“You can come back tomorrow for a few hours, but first sign of a fever and you’re getting sent home,” Sarah said sternly, leaving no room for argument. After properly putting Q in his place, Sarah concluded the examination and sent him directly next door to the on-site chemist, who had his prescription waiting. Bond accompanied him without a word and they made their slow walk to the MI6 car in heavy silence. Q leant forward and pulled the privacy divider shut the moment they were in the back seat, but did not speak until five minutes of unbearable quiet stretched between them.

 

“I’m...sorry…” Q said, when he could not stand it anymore. He stared at the window instead of looking at Bond.

 

“For what?” he asked, like he did not already know.

 

“For...outing you. Us. Outing us, back there,” Q said, running an exhausted, embarrassed hand over his face as he searched for some sort of excuse. “I’m really not in the best state of mind right now.” Bond did not reply right away. Q heard him slide across the leather seat and then Bond’s arm was around him, pulling him close.

 

“It’s fine,” Bond said like he meant it, and Q wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe him as much as he had in a hazy memory of a fever dream where Bond had held onto him and told him he loved him. But they had an agreement. Neither of them did relationships. And besides, that kind of love was only in books and movies and sometimes in real life, but it always happened to other people; it would never happen for them. But Q did not let that thought depress him, because what they had was good enough and the closest thing that the two of them could have to something like that with their hectic lives. And it might end up being short-lived and end badly for both of them, but Q was too happy and too selfish to let it go. Even more so when Bond tucked Q’s head beneath his chin and pressed a kiss in his hair. If Q did not know any better, he would have said that Bond was smiling.

 

“Really. Don’t worry about it.”

 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

Q recovered slowly, much more slowly than Bond would have liked.

 

He went back to work the next day. Sarah had only approved him for short, six hour shifts until he was off the inhaler. R would remain in charge while Q worked on the backlog of projects approvals and other administrative tasks that had built up in his absence. Bond stalked by Q-Division during these hours (Q had insisted that Bond leave him be while he was on shift, but Bond could not focus in the training rooms or the range despite his best attempts) and caught glimpses of his lover deeply engrossed in one thing or another. He looked tired and still too thin (despite the three meals a day Bond forced on him without fail), but R kept him at his desk for most of the day instead of having him walk about the branch. If formally questioned, Bond would neither confirm nor deny if he had or had not bullied a minion into ensuring that Q had hot tea every hour on the hour.

 

“I’m fine,” Q said, every night over the next few days, when Bond would collect him at the end of his six hours. But he sounded so weary and then he would tuck himself against Bond on the ride home and sometimes fall asleep for the short drive. Bond did not say anything, waiting for the medicine to do its work. But then a week went by. Even with the new prescription, Q’s cough still lingered, heavy and wet, and if he did not wake with a fever, he went to bed with one. Concerned at the slow progress, Sara upped the dosage on the inhaler and kept him at a six hour workday, despite Q’s whinging.

 

“You’re pushing yourself,” Bond warned him.

 

“I’m not,” Q said, making a grab for his laptop when Bond snatched it away from him. His cheeks were flushed with fever. “James, give it back.”

 

“That’s enough for one day. Get into bed,” Bond replied.

 

“I’m not a child,” Q responded.

 

“No, but you’re acting like one,” Bond said, and then immediately regretted it. Q gave him a stony look, stood from the couch, and disappeared down the hall. Bond winced when he slammed the door shut to hard that the windows rattled. Although that gesture was plain enough that Q did not want him there, Bond never had been one to listen. An hour or so later, when he thought Q had had enough time to calm down, Bond crept into the dark room and slid into bed. Q lay on his side with his back to him, his body a tense line beneath the duvet. He was not asleep, and Bond knew this, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

 

Q jerked away from him.

 

“Go away,” he grumbled.

 

“Don’t sulk,” Bond said.

 

“Fuck you,” Q replied.

 

Anger and hurt radiated off Q in waves.

 

“Q, I’m just worried about you.”

 

“That’s no reason to patronise me.”

 

“I wasn’t--”

 

“You _are_.”

 

Bond stared at his back, hating the way Q could close himself off and shut him out entirely. It was how he acted with everyone else: somewhat cold, always distant, terribly unreadable in stoic professionalism. Q had been that way after the first night they had sex, and the time after and the time after. It was only when that something between them shifted, just slightly; when the sex became less about a means to an end, Q began to change, began opening up to him. He brought down the walls he had built, _trusted_ Bond with the true version of himself that others would consider vulnerable and weak. That in and of itself had brought a different level of intimacy between them, something that Bond had not expected to ever share with someone again, and so deeply. But Bond had violated that trust: attacked, belittled Q, who could handle almost everything anyone could throw at him but _those kinds_ of hurtful words. Bond had shifted the equilibrium, the balance, and he could feel it all crashing down. Q would rather fight or die than be talked down to and Bond knew for certain that he would rather lose face than lose what they had.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

The phrase felt strange to say aloud. He was not one to apologise, and if he did, it never came across so sincerely. Q remained silent in the wake of his confession, but Bond knew him to be listening. He continued, trying to keep the frustration from fueling his words:

 

“I just… I worry about you. I can’t help it. You don’t eat enough, sleep enough. Now you’re sick and not getting better, but you keep _pushing_ \--”

 

“And you think I don’t worry about you?”

 

Bond quieted at the tone of Q’s voice, so _angry_ and for once not over equipment.

 

“Why is it that I have to listen to you when you don’t listen to me?” Q continued. “Do you think I’m not worried when you come back from the field? You think I don’t worry when you push yourself too soon? For Christ’s sake, James, the last time you went out, you still had stitches in--”

 

“But I’m different,” Bond interrupted. “I’ve been trained--”

 

“No, you’re not different,” Q cut in hotly. “This is the same thing. You can’t be worried about me but I’m not allowed to worry about you the same way. It’s a two way street. If you don’t like it, get out.”

 

The way he said it--the words _get out_ \--made Bond feel a bit cold inside. He could tell that Q meant it, but the undercurrent in his tone all but begged him not to go. To just _listen_. And Bond did not want to go, but he did not know how to proceed, and so went for what he knew the two of them found comfort in: banter.

 

“Why, Q, I didn’t know you cared,” Bond replied. The other man moved his elbow and jabbed him painfully in the ribs. Bond laughed at the twinge in his side and pulled Q against him. Q briefly struggled to get away, but eventually just gave up and laid still beneath his arm. His breaths came hard and uneven and Bond immediately felt guilty, but did not let him go.

 

“It’s not funny, James,” Q replied, once he had calmed. “I’m serious.”

 

“I know,” Bond sighed, all traces of humour gone.

 

“You say you know, but you don’t. You _never_ do. You just keep doing the same thing over and over again.”

 

“I’ll try, Q.”

 

“It’s not rocket science, James. I can’t ask you to not get hurt, because that’s just not going to happen in our line of work. But when you do, at least use some common sense. If you have a goddamn bullet hole in your leg or a bloody stab wound in your side, you get it looked at like a _normal person_ and then rest for a few days until you _stop bleeding_.”

 

His voice sounded raw and hurt. Bond tightened his arm around Q’s waist and pressed his lips gently to the back of his neck. Q resisted at first, but after a few moments, Bond felt some of the tension recede from his lover’s body at the calming, familiar gesture.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bond said again. “I’ve never had someone...worry about me before.”

 

“You’re stupid to think that. You’ve had plenty of people who do,” Q replied.

 

“Maybe so, but not like you,” Bond murmured against his nape, brushing his lips over the soft, fever-warm skin. “Everyone else was worried about me because if I died, it would be more paperwork or more equipment to replace or another obituary to write. They didn’t worry about _me_ , not really. Probably for the best; Double-Ohs don’t have particularly long lifespans.”

 

The moment the words left Bond’s lips, he felt the shift. Q tensed beneath his arm and turned his face into the pillow, tugging his body away from Bond’s as much as he could manage in their position.

 

“Q?”

 

“So I’m a fool, then.”

 

He said it, not asked. Bond did not reply, because he did not know how to answer. This is why he avoided relationships in the first place. They were too messy: mindfields of potential disaster, sewn deeply in emotion instead of logic. But Bond was determined Q was worth the battlefield. In fact, he had never been more certain.

 

“You’re not. Why would you say that?” Bond asked. Beneath him, Q’s shoulders slumped, as if in defeat. A long stretch of silence passed between them.

 

“Never mind,” Q said. “Just forget I said anything.”

 

“Q…”

 

“Just promise me you’ll try. That you’ll actually try, James. And not _try_ in the same way that you _try_ to bring back equipment...”

 

“I will,” Bond said earnestly, honestly, seeking Q’s hand beneath the duvet. He found it, clenched into a fist under his pillow. “I promise, I’ll try.”  

 

After a tense few moments, Q’s hand relaxed and he turned it, palm upwards against Bond’s. He threaded their fingers together and squeezed Q’s hand gently. There was something else, something unspoken between them, but Q did not say anything more after that except a muffled _good night_. Bond lay beside him for the next few hours, lying awake long after Q fell asleep. _So I’m a fool, then_ he had said, and Bond felt something unsettling when he realised then, and only then, that it sounded as if Q were trying not to cry.

 

* * *

 

Bond’s mobile rang before first light.

 

He went from contently spooning Q’s pleasantly warm body to half-propped up on his side of the bed. Out of habit, Bond was already swinging his legs over the side of the mattress before he had even accepted the call.

 

“Bond,” he answered gruffly, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold floor.

 

“Good morning, loverboy.”

 

“Eve, for the love of _Christ_ , it’s six in the morning.”

 

If Eve was calling to have a chat at this hour, Bond would have very strong words with her the next time they came into contact. Either that or he would utilise one of several methods for completely destroying Eve’s favourite pair of shoes. (The leopard print stilettos with the gold buckle seemed to be her favourite this time of year.)

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt anything good?” she asked slyly.

 

“Eve--”

 

“Morning cuddling?”

 

“ _Eve_ \--”

 

“Perhaps something a bit _more_ than cuddling?”

 

Bond hung up on her, switched the ringer to vibrate, and pulled his feet back under the blanket. Behind him, Q shifted in his sleep, and Bond was just turning around to assume his previous position when his mobile went off again. He ignored it and let it go to voicemail, settling back onto his side so that he could slide up behind Q. Just as he was getting comfortable, Bond’s mobile came to life once more. It vibrated across the night table and onto the floor. The clatter it made startled Q, who jerked into half-wakefulness with a sleepy:

 

“Wha’izzit?”

 

“Shh, it’s nothing,” Bond murmured soothingly. “Just the neighbors. Go back to sleep…” The sound of his voice calmed Q easily. Within a few moments, Q was back to breathing deeply and Bond took that opportunity to roll over to hunt for his mobile, which had fallen beneath the bed. Just as he got ahold of it, it began vibrating again and Bond answered, his upper body out of bed, forearms and elbows upon the floor, while the rest of him remained beneath the blankets atop the mattress. If anyone saw him at that moment, they would think him the least coordinated agent in MI6.

 

“This is harassment, Eve,” Bond huffed, once he unlocked the phone.

 

“007 this is not a social call,” Eve said, suddenly all business on the other end. Bond felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at her use of his code name.

 

“You could have fooled me, Miss Moneypenny,” Bond replied, just as professionally, as he gracelessly got out of bed and quietly went into the kitchen.

 

“Mallory wants you in his office in the next half hour,” she told him. Bond felt his stomach clench unpleasantly. It could only mean one thing; the one thing he did not want to do, not right now. Eve must have sensed this, because she cleared her throat and said: “If you’re unwell, 007, I could contact--”

 

“It’s fine,” Bond said quickly.

 

“But...what about Q?” she asked, no longer the secretary to the most powerful man in MI6, but the closest thing Bond had to a friend. A friend who meddled incessantly in his personal life and sometimes shot at him and did not miss.

 

“He’ll be alright,” Bond said, thinking about their conversation from the previous night. He did not want to treat Q like a child, but at the same time, he could not help the instinctual urge to _protect_ and be concerned for him.And because of that, the last thing he wanted to do was go to see Mallory to get a new assignment. Honestly, he did not think he could work until he knew for certain that Q was healthy again.

 

Even then, who was Bond kidding?

 

It seemed that every time he received a mission, it became harder and harder to leave. Bond stared out at the flat, _their flat_ , surrounded by all their things so casually coexisting: their coats on the rack by the door, Q’s discarded tie and cardigan still resting over the sofa cushions, their rain-damp shoes on the mat, the two cups that had been left, unwashed, on the kitchen counter nearest the sink. When did he want all of this? All of this normalcy instead of the casinos and luxury hotels and fast cars and beautiful men and women in the finest wools and silks? When did he start trading up the alcohol and one night stands for sweet cups of his favourite coffee and a warm body next to his every morning?

 

“Bond?”

 

Bond slid down the wall and sat down on the floor, clutching the mobile tightly against his ear. Everyone always thought it would be a bullet to end James Bond, but here he was, done in by a cardigan draped carelessly over the back of the sofa and the gentle rustle of sheets as Q turned over in bed. He could almost see the other man reaching out for him in sleep and the imagined gesture sent something painful through his body.

 

“He’ll be alright,” he said again, swallowing back the unwanted, unprecedented rush of sentimentality. There was no room for this, not with their lives.

 

Not for them.

 

“You’re sure?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Bond replied. “I’ll leave now.”

 

He rang off with her and then returned to the bedroom. There, he dressed impeccably as he always did when going into the office, despite how each done up button and secured cufflink would be one more button and cufflink closer to being apart from Q. _Sentiment_ Bond thought bitterly. That was why they had the agreement. That was why Q insisted upon abiding by it. And now Bond had overstepped boundaries and skewed their entire arrangement, all because he had done something so _stupid_.

 

(But, in his defense, Bond had never expected or intended to fall in love. He really, really had not.)

 

After he dressed, Bond passed on breakfast and hailed a cab to Six. On the commute, Bond tried not to think about the mess he had gotten himself into. That, he might be able to hide. He lied for a living; this would not be any different. Bond felt guilty just thinking that, only adding to the weight he already carried from the previous night. Q had been upset about more than what he let on, that much was for certain. But getting it out of him would take time. Time that Bond apparently did not have.

 

Bond knew it had been coming, but until he saw the folder on Mallory’s desk with _Top Secret_ stamped across the front, he had wanted to believe it would not happen.

 

“I’ll need you in Moscow tomorrow morning,” Mallory said by way of greeting.

 

“What about Trevelyan?” Bond asked, opening his mouth before he could just take the folder and be on his way. That rarely happened. Double-Ohs were trained better; Mallory’s surprise was evident.

 

“What about 006?” Mallory replied.

 

“He’s just returned from leave,” Bond said neutrally, striving for reasoning. “And he knows Moscow like the back of his hand.”

 

Mallory gave him a hard look.

 

“Are you defying orders, 007?”

 

“No, sir, just questioning your judgement in the matter.”

 

Mallory went a bit purple, but did not rise to the bait.

 

“Is there a reason you’re refusing this mission?” he asked levelly.

 

Bond regarded him for a long moment as he pondered the question. He thought about the fight and the way he absolutely, irrevocably loved that man without end, without equal. Leaving him behind for a mission was a necessary evil, but one with which Bond could cope. Leaving him behind for a mission when Q was in his condition was one that Bond could not bear.

 

“Wanted a bit of leave,” Bond said. Mallory’s eyebrows went up to his hairline.

 

“ _You_? Want leave?” Mallory repeated, as if the concept completely baffled him.

 

“Just a week or so,” Bond replied.

 

“Might I ask why?” Mallory asked, steepling his fingers.

 

“Personal reasons.”

 

“ _Personal reasons_.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Mallory stared him down for a long moment. Then he leant back in his chair.

 

“Does this have anything to do with the Quartermaster?” Mallory asked.

 

“I don’t follow, sir,” Bond said, keeping his expression impassive.

 

“We are in the business of rumours, 007,” Mallory said, and he smiled, just a bit. Bond did not know Mallory well enough to know if it was honest or not. The new M stood and and went over to the window that overlooked a grey London morning. His hands came to parade rest behind his back. “I’m sure you’re quite aware of MI6’s policies on inter-office relationships laid down by my predecessors.”

 

Bond did not reply. Mallory turned around to face him with a half-smile.

 

“Well,” he said. “Sod them.”

 

Bond stared, thinking he had not heard correctly.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

 

“I said sod them. The rules, I mean,” Mallory elaborated.

 

Still unsure as to Mallory’s motives, Bond did not react.

 

“It’s been going on a while, hasn’t it?” Mallory prodded. “This relationship between you and Q?”

 

“Perhaps,” Bond said carefully.

 

“I’m not trying to pry, Bond,” Mallory said, as he returned to his chair. “Just an observation. Your performance has not suffered. In fact, it has been much more satisfactory. I see no reason why you should not continue on as you are.”

 

Mallory slid the folder off to the side of his desk.

 

“Due to the circumstances, I am willing to grant you leave for the next week,” Mallory said, his tone back to business as usual. “I trust that during that time you will continue to be of assistance to Q in his recovery.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Bond replied, and made to leave the office. But then he stopped and turned back to Mallory. “Could you do me one more favour, sir?”

 

“What’s that, 007?”

 

“Don’t tell Q I asked.”

 

Mallory regarded him for a long moment, until something like recognition came to his steely gaze and softened it, just slightly.

 

“Oh, so it’s like that, then?” he asked.

 

“Like what?” Bond replied.

 

And to his surprise, Mallory just smiled, like he knew something very important that Bond did not.

 

“Nothing, 007. I’m sure in time, you’ll understand. The both of you,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”

 

When he walked out of the office with no folder in hand, Bond saw Moneypenny hide her knowing grin behind the rim of her coffee cup.

 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

Q woke alone.

 

He came awake all at once instead of gradually, like he usually did in the mornings, fighting ardently for the last few moments of sleep. However, it hit him immediately that the reason for his abrupt return to consciousness was the fact that he was freezing. The London winters turned his flat frigid and the fact that he wore no socks had not helped the matter.

 

Q rolled over into Bond’s empty place in his bed and curled up beneath the duvet, burying his face into the crisp pillow. The sheets had long gone cold without Bond’s presence there, but Q did not bother to move. Sometimes when Bond was away, he indulged in little ways like this: sleeping on Bond’s side of the bed, wearing his clothes, drinking from his coffee mug instead of his own. If Bond knew, he never said, and if he did not, Q would never tell. It gave away too much. He had already done too much damage. The last thing he needed to do was have Bond find out. They had agreed, after all, and Q was not so much a child that he did not understand why. He understood more than anyone that Double-Ohs did not have particularly long lifespans.

 

 _So I’m a fool, then_.

 

The words came back to him; the recollection of Bond’s arm tight around his middle and tears that Q refused to shed. Had Bond understood? Or had he taken Q’s warning to heart--his thoughtless words _get out_ \--and believed it better to leave for good? No, that was impossible... Bond had been with him that morning. Hadn’t he? Q sat up, ignoring the cold and the twinge in his chest that it caused as he grabbed for his glasses and got out of bed.

 

“James?” he called, not caring if he sounded a little desperate. He hurried out into the living room, but found no trace of Bond there or in the kitchen. All of his things remained except for his shoes and jacket. Q knew Bond well enough to know that those two things were all he needed. Bond could easily pick up and start again with just the clothes on his back. He was an agent, so he was resourceful in that way. He might never even have to come back to the flat for his possessions. They could be easily replaced, after all.

 

Q could be just as easily replaced.

 

He stood there in the hallway, unmoving. It took a long time before Q managed to quiet the tumultuous thoughts in his head, narrowing his mental process into a single thread that gave him a series of steps to follow: clean up, shower, go to work, come home, sleep. He did not think about Bond as he ran through his morning routine, or at least he tried not to. But his lover’s face remained firmly in his mind and, really, Q should have stopped thinking about Bond long ago, because then he would not be trying to not think about him now.

 

He took things one at a time: drying off, dressing, making tea. He pointedly ignored Bond’s clothes and coffee mug and all the boxes of tea in the cabinet as he did so. He barely tasted his tea. This was why they had the agreement. This was why Q had tried so hard not to break it.

 

Because Bond was not the kind to stay. Q knew one day he would be left behind.

 

He just did not expect it to be now.

 

“I really am a fool,” he said aloud to the empty flat, as he poured the rest of his tea down the drain. He shut out the lights and was just pulling on his coat when he heard the jingle of keys in the lock. The door opened and Bond appeared in the entryway. He carried a brown paper bag in one arm, smelling of something warm, freshly baked. A newspaper poked out of the top: that morning’s issue of _The Times_.

 

“Oh, no,” Bond said, blocking the doorway with his body after he had disabled the alarm. “You’re not leaving without breakfast.”

 

“I thought you’d gone,” Q said.

 

“Gone? Gone where?” Bond asked, obviously not understanding that Q meant _gone_ as in _gone for good_ and not gone as in _gone out to the shops_.

 

“I don’t know,” he answered instead of elaborating, staring at Bond’s chest. He did not have the courage to meet his eyes, not yet. “Just thought you’d gone.”

 

“We were out of milk,” Bond said. Q glanced at the bag.

 

“You went and got milk?” he asked.

 

“We were out,” Bond replied, as he closed the door behind him and moved into the flat with the grace and familiarity of someone who had been living there for a while. “I also picked up breakfast.”

 

“Breakfast,” Q said. Bond looked at him as if he were slow, which Q supposed he was first thing in the morning. But it was not slowness, not this time; it was more like caution, because Q did not know where they stood, not after last night and the things he had not meant to say.

 

“Yes, that meal you eat in the morning, Q,” Bond replied, walking past him. Q dropped his coat onto the floor and followed him.

 

“I know what breakfast is.”

 

“Apparently not. You were about to leave without having any.”

 

“We didn’t have anything.”

 

“That’s why I went out.”

 

Bond moved into the kitchen and began unpacking the bag. Q lurked in the doorway, watching as he pulled down plates and cutlery, then began fixing breakfast bagels with numerous trimmings that he pulled from small cardboard containers. When he finished, he handed off a plate to Q, who accepted it automatically, but did not make to eat it.

 

“Q?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Alright?” Bond asked.

 

Q realised then that Bond had stopped moving about and was staring at him. The force of his gaze felt heavy and Q looked down at his plate, at the breakfast Bond had gone out and gotten for him because they had nothing to eat in the flat and they had been out of milk and he had _thought_ about him for no other reason than thinking about him. It was just like the way he had stayed with him through his illness when he did not have to and continued to worry about him even though that was not his responsibility. But what did it _mean_? Bond had not left him, not today, but that did not mean he would stay through tomorrow or the next day or the day after. They had their agreement. It was purely physical and nothing more. There was no room for anything else. And Q could not admit to loving Bond, loving him so much that it bordered on painful, because he knew what it meant. It was, as he had once said, _the inevitability of time_.

 

_Double-Ohs don’t have particularly long lifespans._

 

“Q?” Bond asked, and when Q looked up, he nearly lost his breath. Bond’s eyes were so blue that they hurt, like something piercing, stabbing, _drowning_ him. Q should have turned away, should have put an end to things right then and there. He should have, because it would be better for both of them to just _stop_ , but in that moment, Bond was his, and Q wanted him more than anything, than everything.

 

(Stupid of him, so stupid, to fall in love with James Bond.)

 

But Q managed to smile, somehow.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Then why are you crying?”

 

With his free hand, Q brushed at his cheek. His fingers came away wet. He scrubbed his face dry with the sleeve of his cardigan, feeling the heat gather beneath his skin at his embarrassing display. When he looked up again, Q felt the rawness of his cheeks and knew they were most likely blotchy red, but he at least had gotten his balance back enough to reply:

 

“Because this is one sad excuse for a bagel.”

 

Bond stared at him in obvious disbelief, concern flitting behind the ice-blue of his eyes. But Q continued on:

 

“I mean, there’s _cucumber_ on it.”

 

“Cucumber is healthy,” Bond retorted.

 

“I hate cucumber,” Q said.

 

“Then pick it off, princess,” Bond said, smirking at him with something like his usual wit.

 

They proceeded to spend the majority of their morning breakfast bickering at each other in good humour, though Q saw the other man sometimes look at him out of the corner of his eye questioningly, but silently. Thankfully he said nothing, asked nothing, and Q did not divulge, just ate his bagel without a fuss, cucumbers and all.

 

While Bond cleaned up afterward, Q made an excuse to return to their bedroom for a brief moment. He listened as Bond moved about the kitchen, a comforting, familiar sound now. The flat smelled of freshly brewed coffee, the brand that Bond liked that came in the red bag. Q could still taste the richness of cream cheese upon his tongue, the full fat cream cheese that Bond had remembered Q preferred over the low fat. Bond had come into his life so suddenly, but fit so perfectly. Having his steady presence in the flat was normal and wonderful, not boring, not at all, not like he thought. When Q looked at their rumpled sheets and their shared wardrobe, he felt the edges of his smile falling away and he wondered how much longer he could pretend that he did not care at all.

 

* * *

 

“So what do you think?”

 

Q did not immediately look up at the question, too focused on seven thousand cell spreadsheet that threatened to make him go cross-eyed and blind. It was midday and he had been hiding in his office since he arrived that morning, burying himself in administrative tasks that were dull and repetitive, anything to keep his mind off his personal life. But it seemed as if Eve had other plans, if he read her tone correctly, though that did not mean he had to go along with whatever she had to say.

 

“Hmm? About what?” Q asked disinterestedly, still running number calculations in his head, far too busy to pay much mind to Moneypenny, who huffed from his doorway. She closed the door behind her, blocking the quiet hum of activity from the branch outside.

 

“Bond,” she said. This warranted a half-second of a questioning glance in her direction before Q returned to his spreadsheet.

 

“What about him?” Q asked, still only partially participating in the conversation. He had figures before him, all of which made far more sense than everything else, _especially_ what he thought of Bond. In fact, the reason he took on the meaningless task before him was to numb his mind so that he _didn’t_ think about Bond.

 

“Oh, so he didn’t tell you?” she inquired, as she approached his desk. She sounded surprised. And like she was trying to start something.

 

“Tell me what?” Q asked, not rising to it.

 

“Oh, nothing,” Eve said airily, looking at her nails. “Guess it’s supposed to be a secret…”

 

“Then it’s a secret,” Q said, as a clear indication he wanted nothing more from the discussion if Eve was not about to be forthcoming.

 

“You are absolutely no fun,” Eve pouted. “Aren’t you curious?”

 

“Don’t you have work to do?”

 

“Someone’s in a bad mood.”

 

“I’m working.”

 

He scrolled through several hundred line items before realising that Eve had not left.

 

“What?”

 

“You really don’t know, do you?” she asked, sounding almost sympathetic. Something about her tone set Q on edge, even more so than he had been all morning.

 

“Obviously not,” Q replied, giving her his full attention. He could not play uninterested any longer; the numbers were already far from his mind as concern for Bond came rushing to the forefront. “What happened?”

 

“You’re too serious for your own good.”

 

“Eve.”

 

“Both you and Bond. Lighten up.”

 

“Maybe if you weren’t cryptic as hell--”

 

“Bond turned down a mission.”

 

Q stared at her in disbelief.

 

“He turned down a mission,” he repeated.

 

“Yes,” she said.

 

“Bond?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Positive.”

 

Turning toward his computers, Q minimised his current window and pulled up the network on his primary monitor. He did not even have to take a backdoor to Mallory’s workstation to find what he was looking for; everything pretty much stood out there as open record. Q blinked at the screen and reread the information. According to the report, Bond was supposed to have been shipped out to Moscow that morning, but the mission had been transferred over to 006 by manual override from M. It was rare to see a change. Agents almost never refused their field assignments, only having missions transferred to another agent if Medical refused to release them for duty. But Bond was not ill, that much was for certain. When Q pulled intel from several other departments, he found evidence that indicated Bond had taken leave.

 

For an entire week.  

 

Q felt two parts angry one part curious at the revelation.

 

“He’s taken leave,” Q said levelly.

 

“Yes,” Eve replied.

 

“Why would he take leave?” Q asked, wondering why Bond had not said something about it.

 

“Dunno. Why do you think?”

 

“I wouldn’t waste my breath asking if I knew.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him, saying all she had to without having to utter a word. Q leant back in his chair and openly glared.

 

“Oh, come on. You don’t think that it’s because of _me_.”

 

“Of _course_ it’s because of you.”

 

Q frowned at her.

 

“That’s ridiculous.”

 

“How so?”

 

“It’s _Bond_.”

 

“Bond, who wouldn’t take leave even if on his deathbed,” Eve corrected him.

 

“Perhaps M had initially decided to offer the mission to Bond, but then realised that 006 was a much better fit for the assignment,” Q said pragmatically.

 

“Then why call Bond into his office this morning?” Eve asked.

 

“Maybe they were having a chat.”

 

“You think that they would be chin-wagging at six in the morning?”

 

Q sighed.

 

“I don’t know what to think.”

 

Eve pulled up a chair to his desk and sat down in it.

 

“Then stop thinking,” she said seriously.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Then stop over-thinking.”

 

“It’s _me_ , Eve.”

 

She leant forward, resting her forearms on his desk. Although her dark brown eyes usually came across warm and a bit mischievous, this time Q saw nothing but earnestness.

 

“Do you love him?” she asked. The use of the word _love_ , out loud in the open made Q’s chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with his lingering cold.

 

“I can’t love him,” Q said, because it was the truth: he could not. He could not love someone like James Bond, whose life could end so suddenly, so violently. He could not love someone who might leave him, replace him, forget about him, out of boredom or convenience. He could not lose that much of himself to someone whose existence in his life was so _temporary_. It would be setting himself up for heartache no matter what.

 

_Double-Ohs don’t have particularly long lifespans._

 

“But do you love him?” she asked again.

 

He thought about the sheets on their bed that smelled like Bond and the arm around him at night and the gentle kisses in the morning. He thought about how safe he felt with the man, how adored, how impossibly _loved_. And Q wanted it more than anything to be true, to have it last, but things could not be that way.

 

They could not.

 

Q turned back to his computer and resumed his perusal of the spreadsheet he had been working on previously.

 

“I have work to do,” he said, a clear dismissal. But she did not budge from her seat.

  
“You’re afraid.”

 

Her words rang out in the quiet room: an accusation.

 

“I’m no such thing,” Q replied quickly.

 

“You _are_ afraid,” Eve said, told him, with unwavering certainty.

 

He glowered at her over the rims of his glasses. She smiled at him.

 

“It’s okay, you know. This kind of thing, what we do… you would be stupid to not be afraid of committing to a relationship,” Eve said.

 

“It’s not like that,” Q murmured, not seeing the numbers on the spreadsheet no matter how hard he looked. “We’re not the sort of people who can have that.”

 

“Why not?” Eve asked. She did not understand. No one understood, even though it was patently obvious.

 

Q clenched his hands into fists.

 

“Because it won’t end well,” he replied.

 

“Q…”

 

“It’ll just...it’ll just be worse...and I can’t…” He stopped, looking at her pleadingly. He could not say it out loud, even though the thoughts and words and conjured, horrible images were raging fast and loud in his head. And all he could manage was a very quiet, very honest: “ _I can’t_.”

 

“So what then? You’re going to just shut down? Push him away?” Eve asked, sounding angry, almost hurt, as if his decision to not pursue this was a failure on her part somehow.

 

“It’s for the best,” he said pragmatically.

 

“Is that what you think?”

 

“That’s what I know,” he said. Eve leant back in her chair with an unreadable expression. They sat in silence for a long while. Q watched as his monitor darkened and went to sleep, but he did not dare move or make a sound.

 

“Don’t you want to be happy?” she asked. He regarded her carefully, not wanting to speak before he thought, not again. Q had already made that mistake once and he did not need to make it again, not when it was another thing he might have to regret.

 

“How am I supposed to be happy when I can lose everything so easily?” he countered.

 

“That’s not what I asked,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. “Do you want to be happy?”

 

He felt something hard stuck in his throat and Q wanted nothing more than to go back to his spreadsheet or the comfort and familiarity of his coding. Numbers were logical. They made sense. And because they made sense, they could not hurt him. But this--this conversation and what it meant-- _could_ hurt him. Hurt him more than anything else ever could.

 

“And what about Bond?” Eve asked, when he did not say anything. “What about what he wants?”

 

“He doesn’t want this,” Q said hollowly.

 

“How do you know?” she asked.

 

He smiled

 

“It’s Bond,” Q said again, because that explained everything.

 

Bond did not want to settle down. He did not want to spend his days in the quiet domesticity of an ordinary life, watching movies and cooking and going grocery shopping. James Bond would much rather die in a fast car, at the hands of a terrorist, at the piercing pain of a bullet, than to die of old age. And Q knew that monogamy was a shoe Bond had tried on for a trend, but it was not something he would wear forever. That was the harsh reality of things, and Q knew that and accepted it. There was nothing more he could ask for than what they had, and when Bond did not want it any longer, there would be no other negotiations.

 

“You know how he is.”

 

“He loves you,” Eve said.

 

Q’s chest ached at the thought, and it had nothing to do with his lingering cold. At odds with his thoughts just seconds ago, Q considered Bond’s behaviour: his content sort of happiness over the past few days, the desire to care for Q with no motives other than comfort, and his choice to take leave from the job that he loved to continue looking out for Q as he recovered. And then there was that niggling little thought that lingered at the back of his mind, something that Q must have conjured up in the throes of his illness, when all he could feel were Bond’s hands upon him and the smooth whisper of a voice saying things about love.

 

“No, he doesn’t,” Q replied.

 

“You’re wrong,” she countered.

 

“Am I?”

 

“You don’t see the way he looks at you?

 

Q looked at her, somewhat helplessly. Of course he noticed, noticed himself glancing at Bond the same way. But it could not go any further. They both knew that. They agreed. No strings attached, no negotiations. It was better that way.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Q said, because it did not.

 

“It does. More than anything,” Eve said. He smiled at her.

 

“Why Eve, I had no idea you were such a romantic,” he said.

 

Something about his words changed her expression, as if Q had just given her a great idea without knowing it. That borderline-devious look of hers returned and Q narrowed his eyes at her.

 

“Moneypenny…” he threatened.

 

“Oh, is that the time?” she asked, looking at her watchless wrist as she stood up quickly. “Best be off. Important things to do and all, for Queen and Country.”

 

“Eve, I don’t know what you’re thinking about doing, but I’m going to tell you right now to _not do it_ ,” Q warned her, but she was already out the door. He supposed that he could have sent someone after her or stopped her at any of the ID authenticated doorways on her path, but Eve was nothing if not persistent, and Q already had too much work to do. 

 

 _Goddamn spies_.

 

 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

“Bond.”

 

At the sound of his name, Bond stopped halfway through his pull up and turned his head towards the door. Moneypenny stood in all her emerald-frocked glory in the entryway.

 

“Eve,” he said carefully. She had already meddled in his life more than anyone else on the planet and he had a feeling she had not quite finished yet. But that did not mean Bond had to stop his workout routine to deal with whatever Eve had to throw at him.

 

“We need to talk,” she said.

 

“So talk,” he replied, not pausing. The gym was deserted with most of the regulars having a break for lunch, so they were in no danger of being overheard. Bond was not an idiot; he knew what Eve wanted to talk about. Not like it was that much of a secret anymore. Bond had already been on the receiving end of some curious stares in the corridors and locker rooms. Some of the gazes had been more than curious, they had been knowing, which meant that even spies couldn’t keep secrets for long, not at MI6 anyway. Especially when those secrets included their top Double-Oh agent and the Quartermaster.

 

“It’s about Q,” she said, just as he knew she would. Bond groaned as he lost count of his reps, distracted by her tone, the same one that had woken him at some ungodly hour that morning.

 

“Eve, you really should mind our own business,” he answered.

 

“If you would stop being so stupid,” Eve snapped back. Bond stopped exercising and dropped down from the bar.

 

“Look, Eve…” He grabbed his towel off the bench and dabbed at his damp face and neck, trying for some sort of composure. Eve had been meddling from the start and while her intentions were good, Bond did not need her constantly _reminding him_ of the things that he still needed to figure out on his own. What he felt for Q was not the issue at hand, it was whether or not to tell him and what acceptance or rejection could hold for the future. Bond liked gambling, like playing cards, liked playing the odds on a mission, but this was a territory that required care and consideration. Bond knew how much pain a simple wrong move could cause and he did not want to hurt Q if he could help it. “Whatever it is, just don’t. What we do is our own business and not any of yours.”

 

For a moment, Bond swore that Eve might reach out and slap him, she looked so furious.

 

“So I’m supposed to stand by and watch the two of you sabotage your own relationship?” she asked.

 

“It’s not _your_ relationship, Eve,” Bond replied firmly. “I understand that you want to help, but it’s something that we have to figure out on our own. It’s between us and us alone.”

 

Eve opened her mouth to say something, but then she stopped herself. Eyes blazing, she turned for the door, stopping just at the threshold. She did not look back at him, but she did address Bond clearly when she said:

 

“You’re going to lose him.”

 

Bond felt the towel slip out of his grasp.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“You’re going to lose him,” Eve said again. “You both need to talk about it, and soon.”

 

With that, she disappeared, leaving Bond standing in the middle of the training room alone. His blood rushed in his ears, as if he had been running or fighting, and it drowned out all other sound. In that moment, he could hear nothing but that and the words Q had whispered the previous night _so I’m a fool, then._  He recalled the tense line of Q’s body beneath his arm, the way he had been trying not to cry, how he had looked so _sad_ that morning, but brushed it off as something else.

 

Had Q finally decided to end things? Had he finally realised that Bond was no good for him? Bond sat down on the bench nearest the barbells and put his head into his hands. True, he knew that he was not the best person for Q. Q deserved someone who would take care of him, be there for him when he most needed it, both of which Bond could not guarantee, not with his job. Q deserved someone who would be there for more than just sex, for more than just the quick takeaway dinner or rushed breakfast. Q deserved someone steady, someone who wasn’t always a continent or an ocean away, someone who could remember birthdays and anniversaries and actually _be there_ for them. Most of all, Q deserved someone who was not old and broken and had killed so many people that he had lost count.

 

_You’re going to lose him._

 

Bond sat there for a long time, breathing until the noise in his head calmed and his heart slowed, all while his mind thought maybe it was all for the best.

 

 

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not pleased with this version, but I hope you all enjoyed. Please let me know if you find any glaring errors. And feel free to send me shameless praise if you'd like. That always makes my day~  
> Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. I have been staring at this chapter for a month, desperately hoping it would somehow get better. Alas, it has not, but I figured that I might as well post and let you all have some closure... anyone willing to be my BETA for my next project? -looks around hopefully-

 

' _Cause if it's love you want_

_Then you won't mind_

_A little tenderness_

_That sometimes is so hard to find_

_Lay it down/Make it all alright_

_Lay it down/I'll hold you so tight_

_Lay it down/Before the morning light_

_It's gonna be alright_

_Oh, lay it down_

_Come and lay it down tonight_

- _Lay it Down_

Lyrics by Aerosmith

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond did not know how long he sat there with his head in his hands, looking far too pathetic for a Double-Oh, but he righted himself when the sound of footsteps came from beyond the door: the other agents returning to continue their physical training. Immediately, he stood and, hoping that his expression appeared neutral enough, went back to his exercises before someone could see him in such a state. But pretending that Moneypenny had never spoken a word to him was too difficult; Bond could not concentrate on his routine despite his best efforts. He eventually threw in the towel and retired to the locker room, where he took a scalding shower and tried not to think about all of the things he had been pointedly _not_ thinking about. There were the facts: the entire arrangement between them was a mutual understanding; they had agreed that the thing between them was supposed to be physical and nothing more. And Bond had intended it to be that way in the beginning, when they had fallen into bed together not-quite-on-accident-but-not-quite-on-purpose, starving for one another like they had never tasted any other sort of release. That night had been a long time coming. Everyone knew it would happen eventually, even Bond and Q. Maybe they had known from the moment they first met in the National Gallery, or perhaps it had been after, when Bond had woken in Medical after the events at Skyfall, to find Q sitting vigil by his bedside. But regardless of when it had happened, it had happened, and neither of them could have foreseen the current problem: that they were getting too attached instead of drifting apart, like lovers of convenience usually did.

He liked what they had; it was good and easy. Q did not pressure him into doing anything he did not want to do and asked nothing of him (except the usual not-to-die or lose equipment or be a prat, etc). There were no expectations of a normal relationship, no pressures, no obligations, and that was what they both wanted, they had been clear on that. But it became comfortable, routine in a way that was not boring and instead rather welcome, and Bond suddenly found himself wanting _more_. And it was not just that he wanted to receive more, he wanted to _give_ more. When exactly their fling had evolved from nothing into _something_ , Bond could not say. All he knew was that Q's acerbic wit, his blinding intelligence, the softness to him that only happened late at night when all his responsibilities were stripped away, were the things that were just as good, if not better, than the physical relationship they maintained. Of course the sex was good, but for once it was not just about _that_ -not just a means to an end-not anymore.

Bond saw it happening, but did not want to end it, not when it was the one good thing in his life, and so he attempted to tread carefully instead. He had been hurt before-lost too many people too quickly and too often-so he had tried not to care too much, tried not to fall in love when Q made it so _so easy_. Maybe it happened to Q, too, which was why he agreed to put up barriers and tried to follow rules and laid down all sorts of stipulations between them. But they were never ones to follow the rules, that much was certain. They had too much fun breaking them. In hindsight, they should have known better.

Now, months later, Bond could only think about how for the first time in a long, long time, he felt happy: happy in a way that he had not felt since those fleeting, sunshine-filled days with Vesper. He had forgotten what it felt like, how _good_ it could be to have _someone there_ , and he was not keen on giving that away. Besides, the thought of giving Q up to someone else-allowing someone else's hands to touch him, lips to kiss him, body to possess him-irked Bond at such a deep level that he felt indescribable jealousy towards a person who did not even exist.

After finally coming to solid conclusions about his emotional state, whiling away the hours until Q's six-hour shift ended ranked similarly to torture. Bond locked himself in one of the offices reserved specifically for field agents to complete their paperwork so that he could pace the grey carpet in privacy. On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to go to Q and confess everything, but on the other, the thought of confronting the issue between them was rather terrifying. What did Q want out of all of this? Sometimes it seemed he wanted more than their arrangement; he had never complained about having to share a wardrobe, a shower, a bed, the entire _flat_. In fact, Q had opened up his home to Bond in increments: an empty drawer, then two, then three, and then the pointed reorganisation of his shampoo in the shower to accommodate Bond's, the space made in the medicine cabinet for his few personal items, the incorporation of some of Bond's linens to the wash, then all of them, until they were neatly folded alongside Q's in the closet. Q never said a word about the incremental shift from a purely sexual relationship to a more domestic one, when they began sharing breakfasts in the mornings and the take-away dinners at night and that sometimes there were the evenings when they were just too tired to do anything but lie next to one another in bed and breathe the same air and feel the warmth of another body until they fell asleep. And then there was the way Q all but begged him not to get hurt, going so far as to admit that he _worried_ about Bond constantly, worried more than a Quartermaster would worry about an agent. Maybe that meant something, but maybe it didn't. They were both terrible at talking about feelings, that much was for certain. Just like Bond, Q kept his emotions close to his chest. In their business, it was practically a requirement. And even though Q had opened his life to Bond, he only shared a bit of his heart. There were snatches of it here and there, but nothing definitive; it was hard to get a read on what he was feeling most of the time.

But if anyone could find out, it was Bond.

Squaring his shoulders, Bond left his self-imposed confinement and made for Q's office, only to find it empty. Judging from the steaming cup of tea near the keyboard and the fact that the monitors were not in hibernation, Q had just popped out a moment before. He took a seat in the abandoned desk chair and propped his feet on the desk, knowing that it would drive Q mad when he saw. He was just about to begin a game of Solitaire when Q came in, tapping away at a tablet.

"Feet off," he said, not even looking up from his work as he entered and closed the door behind him. Bond obediently did as he was told, but did not rise from Q's chair. His lover came round the desk and stopped, glancing up from the screen to regard him. "You're in my spot."

"Yes," Bond said, turning the chair and his body completely towards Q. "It's late. Time to go home."

Q looked at him strangely, as if holding something else back in his expression. It came across subtly-like the line between his brows that meant he was thinking too much or the slight hitch to his lip with he was worried-but Bond noticed, not because he was a Double-Oh, but because he just knew _Q_ too well. And it was then that he realised he had uttered the word _home_ instead of _the flat_ and little things like that made all the difference; after all, Q made it his business to pick up on the small details.

"Past your six hours. Sarah'll have a fit if she finds you still here," Bond continued, rushing to distract Q from his mistake. But Q had heard, and instead of looking angry or serious, he seemed a little _pleased_ , if the small uptick at the corner of his mouth was anything to go by. _Oh_ , well, wasn't _that_ interesting?

"Hmm, well you don't have to tell her," Q said, placing his tablet onto the desk. He typed out something on it and Bond heard the lock engage on the door. The windows polarised a moment later, blocking the view of those in the bullpen below. "In fact, I don't think you will."

"Really? And why is that?" Bond asked, leaning back in his chair as Q leant forward. His eyes were dark, lips red and sensual. Bond felt his pulse jump in response to the sight.

"Well, I never _properly_ thanked you for taking care of me..." Q said, as his long fingers trailed down over the front of Bond's shirt. His suggestive smirk told Bond all he needed to know about where Q wanted to go with this. Under normal circumstances, he would be all for allowing Q to push him down and have that pretty mouth suck him off, especially because doing that sort of thing at work, in Q's office, had fueled his fantasies for many, many months now. But there were still so many uncertain things between them and Q had only just come back to work after being ill. His cough remained persistent and Q often took at least a half dose of the cough medicine at night in order to sleep. On top of that, Bond knew that he had a few more days using the prescription inhaler, after which he would have to go back to Medical for them to determine if they were going to take him off of it or up the dosage. And although Q looked much, _much_ better than before, Bond could not (with a clear conscious) allow the encounter to go further.

"You don't have to thank me, Q," Bond replied, stopping Q before he could unbutton his shirt all the way. He took Q's hands in his and held onto them. Q's confused look prompted Bond to continue. "Really. I wanted to."

"And, _really_ , I want to thank you," Q said, leaning forward to kiss him. Bond moved his head back and Q stopped, his look of confusion intensifying.

"You're still recovering," Bond said.

"Oh, c'mon. It's not like you're going to catch it," Q laughed, straddling Bond's hips. The chair squeaked a bit under their combined weight and Bond's mind momentarily blanked at the possibilities of what they could accomplish in this position. Q's thighs caged his, hard and hot through his trousers and Bond had to mentally run through naval codes in order to not act on his physical desire.

"That's not what I'm worried about," Bond replied, not releasing Q's hands from his grip.

"Hmmm… what are you worried about?" Q asked nonchalantly, as he leant forward to press light, teasing kisses along Bond's jaw. The fluttering sensation of Q's hot lips against his skin sent a spike of intense want through Bond. It was not because he had gone so long without, but rather due to the fact that he had spent all day with Eve's words repeating in his head-telling him he was going to lose Q, lose all of _this_ -only to have Q greet him with such passion. Where he had expected Q to treat him with some aloofness, he felt a bit caught-off-guard by the welcoming familiarity of the other man's body against his and the small smile at Bond's choice of the word _home_ all while his eyes were dark with lust and desire, body pressed close enough to bruise. Even though Bond did not know what to call this thing between them, he could not bear to pull away now and question it. Not when it seemed that Q felt something similar. The lines were still unclear as to where they stood, but for now…

"Nothing," Bond sighed, resisting the urge to slide his hands up under Q's dress shirt. His fingers itched to caress his lover's skin, but he held back. "And as much as I would like to continue this, I think it would be best to do it when you're better."

"I _am_ better," Q growled against his neck, and, Christ, if that was not the most wondrous sound Q could produce.

"You're still on the inhaler," Bond pointed out.

"So?" Q asked, and nipped at Bond's throat; Bond dug his fingers hard into Q's hips, relishing in his delighted shudder at the treatment.

"So, you're not better," Bond replied, and Q leant back to regard him with a half-pouting sort of glare.

"I really am questioning your judgement. This would be the second time you've opted to not shag me in my office," Q said, his frown deepening as a serious edge fell hard in his voice: "I'll tell you one last time to not patronise me again."

"I'm not," Bond said, grasping at Q's upper arms. He pulled Q down and kissed him hard, chasing the heat of his mouth and tongue with his own, hands skidding up along Q's narrow back to his hair, where Bond's fingers tugged and twisted at the dark strands. Q melted into it, kissing as if desperate, as if drowning, and Bond loved that about him more than anything. No one who looked at Q would ever guess he could kiss like he did and if Bond had his way, no one else would.

After a few moments, Bond regretfully had to pull back, knowing Q would need the break. And right he was: Q wheezed for breath as if he could not get enough air. Although that would normally be a compliment in addition to Q's debauched look-hair standing up at all angles from where Bond had clenched at it and his cheeks coloured red-Bond knew Q's lung infection was to blame.

"See," he said, resting his palm against Q's neck, where his pulse beat erratically. "You're still not better."

Q considered him for a moment as he tried to catch his breath, then leant forward to rest his forehead against Bond's shoulder with a soft groan of defeat.

"This bloody cold…" he mumbled thickly.

"You'll be back to normal soon," Bond said, moving his hands up and down along his spine. Q relaxed under his touch as his breathing returned to normal. Bond felt the rise and fall of Q's chest against his own, the warmth of each exhale upon his neck. Although their position had been intended activity of a more sexual sort, another kind of intimacy remained its absence.

"Promise that you'll let me thank you?" Q asked, once his breaths became less strained. His long, cool fingers slid into Bond's hair, trailing through the short strands idly. Bond closed his eyes at the tender affection, feeling content enough to stay that way for the rest of the night.

"You don't have to," he said. Q stopped the motion with his fingers, drawing back until they were almost nose to nose.

"But you're missing the point, I...I _want_ to," Q replied, stressing the word _want_ with an earnest sort of look that Bond was unsure how to read. Visibly, Q fumbled for something else to say. "I've never, I mean, no one…" He stopped, looking frustrated as he turned his head and coughed weakly into the crook of his elbow. "Bollocks, never mind...just say you'll let me make it up to you, yeah?" he asked hoarsely .

Bond looked at him for a long moment, processing what he had said, what he had _almost said_ , and decided that was as good as he would get now. They were not ready, not yet, not tonight, and that was what prompted Bond to continue with:

"Only when you have your voice back and don't sound like an old man, then we can revisit your request."

Q punched him in the arm.

"You're the old man, _old man,_ " he retorted.

" _You_ still have spots," Bond said, poking him in the ribs. Q jerked away from his finger, but did not make to change their position in the chair. In fact, Q leant over Bond, pushing the seatback dangerously horizontal.

" _You_ can say goodbye to the opportunity to _ever_ shag me on my own desk if you keep this up," Q replied, an ultimatum punctuated by a hard scrape of teeth against Bond's jugular. His traitorous cock twitched in definite interest, but Bond was too much a gentleman to act on it.

"You're going to be the death of me," Bond groaned, and Q laughed, a tickle of warm breath against his neck.

"Funny, I say the same thing about you all the time," Q answered, with something like fondness. He tilted his head slightly to kiss Bond, slowly, softly, with no trace of their previous urgency. It was so beautiful how Q could do that with his mouth: go from bruising to gentle, from desperate to withholding, from passionate to playful, in the span of only a few seconds. Bond had never encountered someone that kissed like Q before, who could read him well enough to know just _how_ he wanted to be kissed. Over his lifetime, Bond had kissed many people, whether out of personal interest or for national security, and he could always tell what end goal his partner anticipated (mostly sex, sometimes sex and then an attempted shooting/stabbing/poisoning afterward, or sometimes no sex at all and straight to the attempted shooting/stabbing/poisoning, which was always a disappointment) just from the press of lips against lips. Bond could only count on one hand the few people in his life he had kissed who had no specific motive, who just wanted to kiss him because that was what you were supposed to do with someone you liked. Q was one of those few; one who could say _hello_ and _goodbye_ just as easily as he could convey _you make me happy_ and _thank you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _I want you_ without uttering a single word. It was so rare and so wonderful and it never ceased to amaze Bond every time, which is why when Q made to pull away, Bond followed, not intending to let it end just yet.

Q made a questioning sound against his mouth when Bond did not release him immediately, but he did not make to move back again. Taking that as invitation to continue, Bond kept up kissing the other man and curled his fingers into Q's dark hair gently as he did so, knowing how much he loved the attention. Q's body melted against his, warm and pliant and beautiful in a way that Bond adored. But eventually, Bond had to allow them to separate. Q panted a bit, flushed, bright-eyed, red-lipped, and gorgeous. He smiled lazily at Bond, almost in the same manner he did after a particularly satisfying orgasm, and something about it made Bond feel almost drunk, buzzed with the realisation that he had pleased this beautiful man so thoroughly.

"What?" Q asked, after a moment, upon noticing Bond's undivided attention.

"You're perfect," Bond said. Q's ears pinked with embarrassment at the compliment as he made quick work of removing himself entirely from Bond's lap.

"You're getting senile," Q replied, a beat too late to match his usual spitfire wit. He straightened his glasses, then his cardigan, still apparently flustered by Bond's words. It made him grin to know that he could do that to Q, that he could find new ways to make the other man lose his controlled composure and be more like the man he saw in the quiet moments of their life away from MI6.

"Maybe," Bond said, not rising from the chair as he rolled forward to trap Q between him and his desk. With nowhere for him to escape, Bond moved his arms around Q's middle and looked up at him. "Dinner?"

Q smiled.

"Starving."

* * *

Bond did not know how much longer it could go on.

He and Q kept dancing around it, letting the unspoken thing between them linger for the next few weeks. The problem was that they both knew it was there, but neither of them wanted to do anything about it. Because of that, nothing outright changed: Bond still lived at Q's flat when he was in London, still got dressed down by his lover when he lost equipment or did something foolish (though in Bond's defense, Lagos _had_ needed a facelift, and what better way to bring some new blood into the city than by burning all the old eyesores of buildings along a major thoroughfare?), and the two of them still made love like it was going out of style. They pointedly did not talk about the things they should have and it might have just been Bond, but he thought that every time he came across Moneypenny, she gave him a pointed evil eye.

The last vestiges of Q's bronchitis cleared in early December and he resumed his previous work schedule, logging more hours on Double-Oh missions than ever with the beginning of the busy month. Terrorists were always extremely active in December (for some reason Bond still did not understand, even after all his years in the programme), which had ruined many planned holidays for countless MI6 employees over the years. The Double-Ohs were no different, sometimes getting only a day or two reprieve between missions before having to be shipped out again. It gave he and Q very little time together, let alone to talk about their relationship.

Q resumed as Bond's handler after the Lagos Incident (because R, despite her competency, was not Q, and even though Bond would deny it, he might have lit things on fire just to spite her), passing 006 onto R and 004 onto another high-ranking tech in the department. With Q back on board with him on every mission, normalcy returned almost entirely. They were still professional-sometimes bordering unprofessional, but that was expected of them-and Bond felt much steadier, centred, clear-headed, with Q on the other end of the comms. So it was just as it always had been, but sometimes, right before he left on an assignment, Bond caught Q looking at him with something in his expression he could not quite name; something that resembled sadness or defeat or both. Because of that, Bond made sure to curtail his recklessness the best he could and refrained from blowing up things that ought not be blown up. He even managed to bring some equipment back with him from time to time. That, in combination with Bond not coming home on a regular basis with seventeen new holes in his body, made Q much more affectionate towards him overall.

It was the week before Christmas and Bond had just returned to MI6 after a particularly hard mission in Jordan. After his debrief with Mallory, Eve shoved a note into his hand with the expression that reminded him of an angry cat. When in the lift, Bond set down his luggage to open the folded page, which read, in Moneypenny's neat script:

_He hasn't left since you did._

_Take him to dinner._

Below her words was a name and address of a Chinese restaurant a short distance from their flat.

Bond pressed the note closed along the crease and put it into his pocket, exiting the lift on the appropriate floor with a new determination. If Q had been at Six since Bond left, then that meant it had been over three days since he had gone home. He shook his head as he walked into Q-Branch, scaring minions out of his path as he made his way to Q's office. There, he found his lover behind his monitors, surrounded by heaps of papers and plans and bits of computer parts and God knew what else. Q did not look up when Bond entered or even when he dropped his bag and came round to his side of the desk, too focused on typing something out frenetically on his keyboard. Just looking at him, Bond knew Q had not left recently; he had a bit of scruff on his chin and jaw and was down to the spare shirt and trousers he kept in the office for emergencies. When he leant forward, Bond picked up the familiar scent of the generic shampoo kept in the locker rooms instead of Q's usual brand.

He rested his hands on Q's shoulders to get his attention, then began massaging at them out of habit. Q's typing slowed noticeably and then stopped entirely.

"James," Q sighed, finally greeting him.

"Q," Bond said, pressing with his thumbs just where he knew Q needed it most.

"You're back early," he said, letting his head fall forward so that Bond could work at his neck. Bond obliged and Q made a pleased sound at the attention.

"Am I?" he asked.

"You're supposed to be back on Wednesday," Q replied.

"It _is_ Wednesday," Bond answered, squeezing gently at the junction of Q's neck and shoulder. He glanced over at the couch shoved in the corner of the office, noting slightly skewed cushions and neglected blanket draped over the back. Beside the sofa, Bond spied an abandoned MI6 coffee mug from one of the break rooms, two empty takeaway containers, and a half-empty glass of water. "Christ, you really haven't left, have you?" Bond did not wait for Q to answer, immediately making for where the other man kept his coat and satchel. "Alright, it's time to go," he said, taking up the aforementioned items.

"Wait now," Q said, blinking at Bond as if he just woke from a nap; he looked disheveled and disoriented enough. But then Q's expression sharpened, his previous languidness falling away to protocol. "Have you even been debriefed yet?"

"I had debrief with Mallory at 1800," Bond replied. Q regarded him with something resembling suspicion. "Well, look it up if you don't believe me." Not breaking eye contact with him, Q moved his mouse and then typed something out quickly with his right hand. His gaze flicked to the computer for a second and then back to Bond. "Satisfied?"

"You haven't been debriefed with me," Q said.

"Is that what we're calling it? _Debriefing_?" Bond asked, grinning as he sauntered closer to Q's desk. "Should I lock the door?"

To his credit, Q did not look impressed or amused.

"Your weapon, 007," Q said professionally, procuring a tray from under a bundle of R&D plans.

"About that," Bond began, stopping himself at the look Q gave him. Obviously he was not in the mood to joke. The agent unholstered his gun, cleared the round in the chamber, and dropped the clip, placing all pieces onto the tray for Q's inspection.

"It's in one piece," Q said aloud, as if he could not believe it.

"You sound surprised," Bond replied.

"This is the third time you've brought it back. It's definitely a record," Q replied, glancing up at him. "What about my radio and earwig?" Bond produced the items as asked, both in rough, but somewhat presentable condition. Q poked and prodded at them with various tools before leaning back in his chair. "I am impressed," he said, looking Bond up and down with something a little-less-than-professional in his gaze. "Not only did you save me the work, and the taxpayers money, but you also came back with all your blood in your body. A commendable feat." The praise was almost enough to make Bond blush, if he were capable of such a thing. It felt good to know that he could please Q. Speaking of which...

"So does that mean I've earned a special _debriefing_?" Bond asked. Q threw the nearest biro at him, which Bond dodged easily.

"Maybe I'll make you something nice," Q said thoughtfully.

"An exploding pen?"

"You never quit with that, do you?"

After some more teasing and a bit of coaxing, Bond somehow lured Q away from his computer, into his coat, and out of his office. His presence made the minions nervous, which sped up the evening transfer protocol immensely. Q had barely signed off on the last line before Bond began ushering him toward the door. Eyes followed from the bullpen-most likely at Bond's close and perhaps-a-bit-too-familiar proximity around their Quartermaster-but no one said a word or made to stop them, not even Q. Outside, Bond flagged down a cab and the two of them tucked inside the warm vehicle for the commute. As the car pulled into traffic, Bond moved his arm round Q's shoulders, brushing some cold condensation from the fabric of his anorak. Q leant into him, typing out something rapidly on his mobile as he did so.

"You've clocked out," Bond said.

"My day is never over," Q replied, not glancing up from the screen. Bond covered it with his hand, shifting Q's attention from the device to him. His eyes were tired, testament to the long hours he had undoubtedly spent sitting in front of his monitors, making sure everything went as smoothly as possible for Bond out in the field. It had gotten rough at times and Bond had a few bruises in creative places to prove it, but overall it had gone well. And Q's diligence was to thank for that. Always to thank for that. Gently, Bond moved Q's glasses to rest at the top of his head and pressed a tender kiss to the spot just between his brows. The small line of tension there faded as Q breathed out a small sigh. He then tilted his head slightly, allowing Bond to brush his lips over Q's lids.

"You are quite the distraction…" Q murmured.

"You like it," Bond replied, softly enough that it did not even disturb Q's lashes.

"I do," he said, and when he opened his eyes, they were dark, dark green. Bond took that opportunity to kiss him properly, not giving a damn what the driver might think of them. He did not linger long, but when he pulled back, Q followed, his mobile forgotten entirely. "I think I like that even more," Q told him, and kissed him again.

"I think I like this the best," Bond said, sliding his fingers over the bit of stubble on Q's jaw.

"Really?" Q asked, pressing against him. "Because I think this is the best." And then he did something with his tongue against Bond's that made his breath stutter to a halt in his chest.

"I think you're right," Bond said, once Q released him. Q laughed, and the exhaustion seemed to lift from him momentarily, making him look unbelievably young and beautiful. If it was possible to fall in love again, Bond would have, right then and there. "Definitely right," Bond added unnecessarily, and leant forward to resume kissing him.

(Bond tipped extra once they arrived at their destination, thinking it only fair after the two of them snogged like schoolkids in the back seat.)

At the kerb, they gathered their things from the taxi and dashed through the icy precipitation towards the main door of the apartments.

"You're not going to believe it, but they've fixed the lifts," Q said, once they were inside.

"Who did you blackmail?" Bond asked.

"Do you really think so little of me?" Q replied, trying a bit too hard to look and sound innocent as he called the lift.

"You might have fooled me if not for that face," Bond said, and Q smirked with his kiss-reddened lips.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Q simply smiled, but did not divulge any other information as they stepped into the lift and took it up to their floor. They made it just past the front door, where they flipped on one light and then dropped their bags and coats right there in the foyer. Bond pressed Q up against the back of the couch and the other man made a sweet sound against his mouth. When they parted, Q tipped his head back, revealing the pale expanse of throat that Bond had been dreaming about marking for days. He got to work on that immediately, fingers already pulling at the knot of Q's tie.

"I'd hate to ask…" Q began, breathy as Bond divested Q of his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt.

"Hmm..?" was the only reply Bond could manage, with his lips so otherwise pleasantly engaged.

"Would you mind if we put this on hold for, ah-about an hour?" Q inquired, gasping beautifully when Bond finished sucking a small mark at the hollow of his throat. The query made both his mouth and hands stop immediately, and Bond pulled back enough to see Q looking up at him sheepishly. The exhaustion had returned; a shadow of it lingered behind his eyes and Bond felt nothing but guilty for his actions.

"Sorry, of course," Bond said, straightening Q's clothes the best he could manage, focusing on that task so that he did not continue to mentally berate himself. He should have realised that Q did not have the same amount of down time as he had; while Bond had been lounging at the hotel spa waiting for the verbal go-ahead, Q had been moving satellites and CCTV across the capital to make sure that Bond was going in as prepared as he could be. That kind of work did not do itself. Bond knew for a fact that Q meticulously triple-checked everything before sending agents into a situation, because he was the Quartermaster and ultimately responsible for the outcome of every mission, every life. Q took on that responsibility knowingly and bore it for all to see at work. But the load was heavy, sometimes too heavy, and it was only when they were alone that Q let Bond see that. He kissed him softly. "Go have a lie down."

"Just a quick power nap," Q told him, sliding his arms up over Bond's shoulders to embrace him; Bond returned the gesture, settling his hands at the small of Q's back. "Then I'm all yours."

"All mine?" Bond asked, looking down at Q, who smiled.

"Indeed. _Debriefing_ , I think you called it," Q said, his smile turning into something a bit more seductive.

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes. And I intend for it to be thorough."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from my Quartermaster."

Q grinned and kissed him.

"Wake me in an hour?" he asked, and Bond agreed with a nod, reluctantly releasing Q, who disappeared into the bedroom. Once he heard the door close, Bond tried his damnedest to relax-to have a sit down on the couch for a bit after running through the back streets of Amman from seriously angry (and creative) terrorists-but he was unable to hold still, buzzing with nervous energy beneath his skin. He decided to use it as an outlet and began moving about the living room, taking up their discarded things in the foyer to put them in their proper places. Then Bond proceeded to straighten everything in the flat within an inch of its life. When he was through, he went in search of something to clean, but with Q not having been home for the past three days or so, there was nothing much to consume his time. Restless and agitated for no other reason than his own uncertainty, Bond eventually broke down and went into the bathroom to shower, mostly so that he did not have to stare at the clock. He aggressively scrubbed at his hair and skin, wondering if tonight would be the night the two of them finally came to terms with things. They had to; they could not wait any longer. They had too many excuses-too tired, too busy, too injured-and would continue to use them unless one of them took a stand.

And Bond was determined.

They would talk about it. They would discuss things tonight; no more dancing around the issue, hoping it would resolve itself. He would lay it down, lay everything down, and deal with the consequences when they came. Bond did not have much to give, not really, not after everything he had seen and done and lost, but whatever he did have, he would give to Q, if he would take it. And Bond hoped he would take it, because the thought of Q turning him away-the thought of never returning to the small bit of a life they had carved out together-hurt him in ways a gunshot wound never could.

He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and took up his clothes as he made for the bedroom. Quietly, Bond entered and deposited his laundry in the appropriate basket. Then he joined Q on the bed, who lay atop the duvet on his side, his back to Bond. His breaths were soft and even, body warm when Bond settled behind him. It seemed almost cruel to wake him, especially after the past few hectic days, and Bond was just considering abandoning his plans to let Q rest when the other man shifted beneath his arm with a sleepy sigh.

"'time is it?" Q asked. Bond glanced at the clock on the bedside.

"Quarter 'til nine," Bond answered, nuzzling Q's mess of curls. He had missed this while away: the lazy, comfortable familiarity of lying next to someone he trusted implicitly, someone he loved endlessly. Bond swallowed back the words, kissing along the shell of Q's ear instead. "You can go back to sleep if you'd like."

"Mmm...not if you keep doing that…" Q purred, stretching like a cat against him. Then he yawned and turned over, tucking himself against Bond's bare chest and neck. Bond resisted the urge to move away from the somewhat scratchy fabric of Q's cardigan, enjoying their closeness more than his discomfort. He amused himself by playing with Q's hair, thinking about how nice it would be if he surprised Q with a cashmere jumper for Christmas, because that would certainly feel nice against his skin... Q's even breaths lulled him into a warm, contented state, and he only emerged from it when Q moved just a bit under his chin and said quite clearly: "Don't let me fall back asleep."

"Alright..." Bond replied, and moved his hand beneath Q's shirt and cardigan, where he proceeded to trail his fingers up and then down Q's back slowly. "Are you hungry?"

"Hmm…" Q hummed, either in thought or in response to Bond's touch, he was unsure. Then after a moment he answered with: "I could eat."

"Chinese?" Bond asked.

"Whatever you want," Q murmured against his neck, voice still thick with sleep. Bond had heard that tone out of him many times before, most often in the mornings when Q was still fighting for his last few minutes of rest. Those were the mornings Q ended up leaving late for work, usually because Bond did not have the heart to rouse him when he was so tired. (Or because he was so very selfish and wanted nothing more than for he and Q to spend the day lazing in bed together.) But tonight was different. Q had said not to let him go back to sleep, so Bond was not going to let him; his mission suddenly back on track, Bond sprung into action.

"C'mon, get up," Bond said, sitting up to lean over Q so that he could turn on the light. Q immediately groaned and tried to hide beneath his pillow from the offending illumination. Bond picked it up and tossed it at the end of the bed, leaving Q to grope blindly about for it, his eyes barely open. It reminded Bond of a newborn kitten, and he could not help but laugh at the mental image.

"You're so cruel," Q grumbled, scowling at him in a way that was endearing rather than intimidating. Bond kissed the frown from his lips, not caring about the somewhat bitter taste of sleep and dark tea he encountered there.

"Go take a shower," Bond said and Q, in a surprising display of obedience, did as he asked. As the shower ran, Bond dressed. He considered his suits, knowing that Q liked the navy one the best, but then decided on something more casual: dark jeans and a fitted long-sleeved shirt. He removed one of his personal weapons-a gift from old Boothroyd, a Beretta 950-from his bedside table and strapped it to his ankle. Old habits died hard, after all, and Bond had been shot at enough on home soil to know it was better to always arm himself than to be surprised.

"I may be almost blind, but even I can tell that you have far too many clothes on."

He turned as he was threading his belt through the loops of his jeans and saw Q standing in the doorway: clean shaven and casually leaning on the frame in nothing but a towel. Even though Bond knew he could only see shapes and colours without his glasses, Q's gaze still came across appreciative when it lingered on his arse.

"We're going to have dinner," Bond said.

"I thought we were getting Chinese," Q replied, entering the room, clearly on path to his side of the bed. Bond watched his movements, letting his eyes roam over Q's bare body. The love bite Bond had left earlier stood out vibrantly: a reddish-purple blemish on his otherwise creamy skin. It made Bond want to leave more behind: a testament that Q was his and no one else's. The thought of marking up his neck, chest, stomach, the insides of his wrists and thighs, anywhere he could possibly reach, made Bond's mouth go dry. If the night went well, perhaps he would see those fantasies through.

He cleared his throat, hoping it would also clear his thoughts.

"We are," he said, rummaging through Q's drawer for the green shirt Bond particularly liked on him.

"We don't need to put clothes on for that," Q said pragmatically.

"We're going to have a real dinner," Bond told him, searching for a pair of trousers for Q to wear that were not part of his boring MI6 wardrobe.

"Eating Chinese takeaway on the couch while naked is a real dinner," Q replied, in the same sort of tone. Bond heard him flop onto the bed behind him with a soft huff. "We could even put the food on real plates and eat with cutlery and everything."

"We're going to get dressed, go out, and sit at a table like normal people and have dinner," Bond said, with no room for argument. He found a pair of jeans-probably the only pair Q owned-tucked into the bottom drawer in the far back. They appeared to be about a decade old, and had the holes and tears to prove it. Surprisingly, the state of them did not aggravate Bond-who liked things neat and orderly-and he thought he most definitely would like to see Q dressed in them, if only to rip them off later.

"Oh, no, you want to go _out_? I have to put trousers on?" Q groused. Bond tossed the jeans over his shoulder in answer, and Q made an indignant sound when the article of clothing hit him in the face. " _James_ -"

"Get dressed," Bond said affectionately, dropping the shirt and a pair of pants onto the mattress next to Q.

"That has to be a first," Q said, after he had freed himself from the offending garment over his head. His glasses were slightly askew and he smiled cheekily at Bond. "You know, you telling me to put more clothes on."

"They'll be coming off later," Bond promised and Q wet his lips with his tongue in a way that was nothing short of pornographic.

"I'm looking forward to it," Q said, looking up at him through his lashes and fringe, like the little minx no one knew he was, except for Bond (who really did intend on keeping it that way).

"Clothes," Bond told him, and left the bedroom before he could sabotage his own plan by acting on the impulse of his traitorous cock. Q laughed-such a pretty, pretty sound-at his retreating back and began getting dressed. Bond put on his shoes and then paced the living room while he waited, feeling nervous in a way that he had not experienced since a young age. Even before a mission, he never felt this level of anxiety. Was it the right thing to do? Were they both ready? Would these feelings even last? Was it worth it? Bond began second-guessing himself, something that he rarely-if ever-did. But then he stopped, calmed himself in the same manner he did before jumping out of an airplane or dismantling a dirty bomb, and then once his breaths were even and his heart had stopped pounding so hard, Bond asked himself the one question he needed to ask:

_Are you happy?_

Being able to answer _yes_ never felt so freeing, like Bond had been locked inside of a dark room for so long and finally been exposed to sunlight. In a way, he had been. Ever since Vesper and the vengeance that followed after her death, Bond had been in a place he could not escape, not even with the aid of beautiful men and women and all the drugs and alcohol he could find. And then it had gotten worse, spurred on by the rage at being shot down, abandoned, left for dead by MI6. Then there was the blinding anger at seeing his childhood home go up in flames, the despair of holding M as she took her last breath in his arms, the utter bleakness after all of it as Bond's usefulness faded with age. But then there was Q, who believed in him and bullied him and _challenged_ him, made him feel needed and useful, not just a tool, but a human being. Q made him feel like a person, like someone worth caring about, and if that was not sunshine after a long, cold winter, Bond did not know what else could even hope to compare.

"Oh, _God_ , where did you even _find_ these? I haven't seen these jeans since uni..."

Q's voice brought him out of his thoughts and into the present. Bond stopped in mid-pace to regard him, taking in the sight of Q in a fitted green thermal and the curiously alluring pair of ratty jeans. The way they hugged his thighs and clung to his calves was enough to make anyone stare, Bond enough so that he completely forgave Q's choice of frumpy brown cardigan.

"I could ravish you in those," Bond said honestly, and Q went pink from neck to the tips of his ears, but he overall looked pleased.

"You sure you want to go out?" Q asked, toying with one of the small holes near his right front pocket. Bond watched him intently, knowing exactly what Q was doing. This was the game they had been playing for weeks now: the second it seemed like the opportune moment came to discuss what they _knew_ they needed to talk about, they immediately defaulted to innuendo and fell into bed together. It was much, much easier to fall into the simplicity of that than to confront the complex nature of the uncertain thing between them. And no matter how tantalising Q appeared in such attire, Bond resolved to not fall for it.

"Yes, we're going," Bond said, and went to the door to prove it, taking both their coats from their respective hooks.

"Okay, where are we going?" Q asked, going to him without having to be told. He even allowed Bond to help him into his coat without a fuss, as if he were playing along with a joke Bond was not aware of having told.

"For Chinese," Bond replied, shrugging into his own jacket. He double checked for his wallet and keys in the inside pocket as Q took up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

"Very informative," Q said, as Bond armed the flat and the two of them locked up.

"It's a restaurant," Bond elaborated.

"Well that's much better than it being a bank or a school," Q replied dryly as they got into the lift. Bond pressed him against the wall and kissed him until he stopped frowning. "C'mon. Tell me."

"It's a surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"Why not?"

"Because surprises usually involve bomb threats or blown up embassies or possibility of chemical warfare," Q replied. "And I'll have you know that all of these surprises are usually your fault, which just makes more paperwork for me."

"No paperwork, I promise."

"You always say that."

"I mean it this time," Bond said, and kissed him again before he could argue.

They took a cab again in order to stay dry from the light drizzle. It was only a ten minute commute from their flat. When Q saw the restaurant-a hole in the wall place that Bond would have absolutely overlooked-he glanced over at Bond with something akin to surprise, then understanding.

"Should I give Eve the credit for this one?" Q asked, as they exited the taxi.

"No, not all of it," Bond said, holding open the door for him. Q just smiled and went ahead inside. They took the table in the far corner, cramped between the wall and the kitchen exit with a full view of the street outside. The table shook and the chairs were uncomfortable but the food was as authentic as Bond had ever tasted outside of mainland China. And it might have been sentimentality, but Bond thought Q never looked more beautiful than he did laughing over a plate of potstickers.

Surprisingly, the evening went well. They had never truly been on a date-having rushed to the mattress so quickly that they completely bypassed the entire getting-to-know-one-another phase-so Bond was unsure as to how the two of them would handle such a normal, social situation. But Bond did not lack for conversation with Q, who was knowledgeable in subjects beyond computers and mechanical engineering. Bond knew this from the books in Q's flat and the saved television programmes on his DVR, but very rarely did they have the opportunity to pursue such topics that strayed from their profession. It seemed like it had been a long time since Bond had talked about something just for the sake of it, instead of as a means to acquire information of some sort to be used at a later date. And it seemed like an even longer time that someone had been interested in what he had to say, not to use it against him, but just genuinely _intrigued_. It surprised him that Q was legitimately interested in Bond's extensive knowledge of naval history and did not seem at all uncomfortable with his lack of understanding on the subject. They spent a good portion of their meal discussing the topic, with Q asking questions to fill in gaps for what he called his "limited technical knowledge of ships". Bond was more than happy to answer these inquiries, even going so far as to doodle small drawings onto serviettes to help illustrate his more complicated responses.

"Well, you're no J.M.W. Turner, but with a bit of practise…" Q said, squinting at the scratchy art on the paper.

"J.M…?" Bond asked.

"J.M.W. Turner," Q supplied the rest for him. "You know, 'the painter of light'?"

" _You_ like art?" Bond inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"You make me sound so uncultured," Q said, stealing a crab rangoon from Bond's plate with no pretense of apology.

" _You_ like _art_?" Bond said again, just to keep on, and Q rolled his eyes.

"Did you forget where we met?" Q asked. Bond's lips quirked a bit at the corners, thinking back to that day, so long ago, when he had been sitting in front of the ugly painting of the HMS Temeraire at the National Gallery waiting to meet his new Quartermaster. And then a too pale, too thin, too _young_ man sat down next to him and said-

"' _What do you see?_ '," Bond murmured. Something minute changed in Q's expression, but it was so subtle that Bond could not quite figure out what it was. He slid his hand across the table, touched the tips of his fingers against Q's, who let him, even though it bordered on stupidly romantic. " _The Fighting Temeraire_. How could I forget? That was a bloody big ship."

Q smiled, and whatever had fallen heavy in his expression before, disappeared. They had a rather engaging discussion about impressionist painters, a topic which Bond would not consider Q's area of interest or expertise, but then again, Q never failed to surprise him. Even more surprising, Q allowed Bond to tease him in Mandarin over dessert and did not try to stab him with a fork when he began laying on the most ridiculous pick-up lines he had learned during a long undercover mission with very lonely, very creative mercenaries in Changzhou. By the time their dinner had concluded, the cold drizzle outside had ceased, and instead of hailing a cab, Bond suggested that they walk back to the flat.

"Exercise is good for you," Bond said, when Q began to protest.

"Says the man whose main cardio workout is running away from armed terrorists," Q replied, munching thoughtfully on his fortune cookie as they walked down the pavement. "Besides, I get plenty of exercise." Bond must have given him a doubtful half-glance, because Q regarded him with a sly smirk and said: "In fact, I intend to work out tonight."

"Really?" Bond asked, reading that grin easily. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"Not sure," Q answered nonchalantly. "Let me consult my fortune." He unfolded the strip of paper that had been in his cookie and read aloud: "'You shall have an excellent shagging tonight.'" Q gave him a serious look. "It seems the fortune cookie has spoken. I now expect an excellent shagging."

"I'm sure I can arrange something," Bond said, as he put his arm around Q's waist. Not even breaking stride, Bond kissed him quickly, but with promise. Q clung to the back of his jacket and made a frustrated sound, but kept up with him, and Bond only felt him hesitate slightly when they started in the opposite direction of their flat.

"Wait, why are we going this way?" Q asked, catching on to the deviance immediately.

"What way?" Bond asked.

"This way. It's the long way back," Q said, as Bond ushered him across the street.

"Fancied a walk in the park," Bond replied, nodding in the direction of the entrance up ahead.

"It's freezing," Q protested, but did not stop, merely shifted closer to Bond for warmth.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Q?"

"Left it in my other trousers."

Bond barked out a laugh.

"It'll be fun," he said, leading a compliant Q down along the main path.

"I can think of a much better definition of fun," Q replied, looking up at him with the same smirk from before: the one that Bond had seen many times, which told him exactly what Q meant by _fun_. Bond would have acted on that at any other time-turned them right around and gone back to the flat to shag the other man senseless like he so desperately wanted-but he had come this far with another purpose in mind and he was determined to see it through.

"Let me rephrase it, then," Bond began, pulling Q closer to him with a confidence he did not truly feel. "It'll be romantic."

"Romantic?" Q repeated, giving Bond a raised eyebrow. He seemed a bit confused at the prospect, most likely because Bond did not _do_ romantic (outside of missions that required it, anyway), just as Q did not. They had their agreement in place to avoid many things, romance included. They were both simple men with simple needs and desires: shelter, food, sex, and sometimes not even in that order. They did not require anything flashy or showy to satisfy them, nor did they need overly-obvious displays of affection and adoration that some couples employed. It was not to say that romance was dead, but that romance was just not their cuppa. Then over time, Bond realised that there actually was a sort of romance about them; something existed in the little gestures, the honest ones, and those made all the difference, all the _romance_. It was like when Bond knew exactly when Q needed a hot cup of tea or when Q would rub his feet after a particularly hard mission, even though Bond never had to ask. So perhaps they did not adhere to the normal standard of what most of society deemed romantic, but they could be, in their own way. And Bond thought that something simple and quiet, a stroll through the park together, just them and no one else-no demands from work, no impending assignment hanging over their heads, just them-might be a good way to start things.

"Romantic," Bond said again. Q visibly swallowed and looked only slightly uncomfortable, but he did not pull away, which had to mean something.

"Alright," he said, the simple word sounding forced, with something like anxiety in the undercurrent. Bond pulled him closer, indulged in a moment to brush his cheek against Q's hair, before continuing onward. Despite the late hour, there were plenty of people about: both couples and a few families. Everyone had most likely come to view the holiday fairy lights woven in the bare branches of the park trees. Overhead, they winked and glittered beautifully in strands of gold, white, blue, and red. Their illumination painted a soft blend colours on Q's skin, and Bond watched in fascination as the pallette shifted depending upon which trees they passed.

"What?" Q asked.

"What?" Bond asked.

"You're doing that thing again," Q said.

"What thing?" Bond inquired.

"When you...look at me. Like that," Q replied.

"Why should I not like looking at you?" Bond asked, and Q's cheeks turned pink, but it had nothing to do with the lights above them.

"It's unnerving," Q said, looking away, obviously embarrassed.

"Why?" Bond asked.

"Why are we here?" Q asked, diverting the question. He had stopped walking and Bond had too, but when, he could not say. They stood in the middle of the path, but moved off to the side to let other people pass.

"For a walk," Bond said, and even to his own ears, it sounded an outright lie.

"James," he said, in the way he sometimes said _James, don't you bother coming back without my equipment_ , like he already knew what he was going on and did not want to deal with any more bullshit. Bond took his hand and led him through the trees to an alternate path, where there were less people walking about to overhear them.

It was time. Everything had been leading up to this. And now Bond stood before two very different futures and he could only hope-only pray to a God he didn't believe in-that the conversation would go the way he wanted. The alternative was unthinkable.

"I wanted to ask you something," Bond said, standing to face him.

"Alright," Q said, and Bond saw tension take hold of him, as if Q were steeling himself before battle, for the conversation that they both knew had been coming.

"Maybe several somethings," Bond amended. "And I want to be honest."

"Oh, don't let MI6 hear that out of you," Q told him, obviously trying for banter, trying to give Bond one last chance to turn back and pretend that this entire thing did not happen. But Bond was determined as he stepped forward and brushed his thumb along Q's cheek, down to trace his jaw. Q's expression softened slightly and became more content, in a way that had nothing to do with the gentle light and everything to do with the way Bond touched him like he _knew_ Q wanted to be touched. But then Q came back to himself, straightened up as if putting on armour, and looked at Bond expectantly.

"I want to move in with you," Bond said. The words tumbled out easily, not truly the ones he had intended to say, but a good start, nonetheless. Q regarded him without any shift in his expression.

"You want to what?" he asked.

"I want to move in with you," Bond said again clearly, surely, with confidence that he _did_ feel.

"Oh, alright," Q replied, in a tone that made it sound as if they were discussing the weather.

Bond had not been expecting him to answer so casually.

"...alright?"

"Yes? Unless you wanted me to say no?"

"No, but, you're sure?"

"We basically live together anyway. It's a practical choice."

"I'm not asking out of practicality," Bond said seriously.

"Then how are you asking?" Q asked.

Bond sighed, gathered up whatever strength he had, and continued.

"For someone so smart, you're stupidly dense," he said, and Q frowned.

"You're the one not being clear."

"I said I wanted to move in with you."

"Yes, and I said that you could."

"But you didn't ask why."

"Why, then?" Q asked, but there was no challenge in his voice. If Bond did not know better, he would say that Q looked afraid, vulnerable almost. They were both in uncharted territory and Q was all but begging him with his eyes to _stop_.

"Because… I want to be with you," Bond said, and held his breath.

Q seemed confused at the revelation.

"You are with me."

"No, I mean _with you_ , with you."

"I don't understand," Q said, brow furrowed as if Bond had given him a particularly difficult algorithm that he could not yet figure out.

"Christ, I'm in love with you, you idiot," Bond said, his voice coming out so loud that it carried.

But Q did not say anything. He just stared and stared for a long time.

"What?" he finally managed, voice small and quiet.

"I'm in love with you," Bond said, surprised at how easily the words came, those words he thought he would never say to someone again. Before him, Q looked windswept, his expression betraying how stunned he felt at the confession.

"With me?" Q clarified.

"Yes, with you," Bond confirmed, stepping closer to Q, taking his hands. They were cold and trembling. Bond wrapped his fingers around Q's to try to warm him, but his lover did not seem to notice. He still seemed dazed, but not in a happy way, more of a blindsided and unsure manner.

"But…" he began, sounding uncertain.

"But what?" Bond asked. Q took in a breath and looked up at him.

"We agreed."

"Sod the agreement, Q."

Q turned his head and pulled his hands from Bond's, but did not move away completely

"We can't," he said.

"Why not?" Bond asked.

Q seemed conflicted. Bond stepped closer, but did not make to reach for him.

"We said nothing complicated. Love's kind of a complicated thing," Q said, and the way he said _love_ made it sound like it physically pained him.

"I know. I've tried, I really have, but I can't just box it up and forget about it," Bond said, feeling a touch desperate. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch Q, but, as if sensing it, the other man took a step away from him. Then he turned around, showed Bond his back, and said clearly:

"No."

Bond felt everything stop-breath, blood, heart, _everything_ -and diverted his reaching hand to grip at the handrail on the low wall beside them. In that moment, it was the only thing keeping him upright on his own two feet.

"No?" Bond repeated, winded as if he had just been punched and beaten and tortured in the span of less than twenty seconds.

"No, I can't," Q said.

It sounded like Q was trying not to cry, like that night in the dark when he had just whispered _good night_ instead of saying what he had wanted to say.

"Why not?" Bond asked.

"Because it's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"Loving you back."

Bond felt something in him soar at the words-Q loved him, really loved him?-while the rest of him struggled with something that drove him harshly down to earth. If Q loved him, why did he sound so sad, so _defeated_?

"You love me," Bond said, and Q huffed out a laugh.

"Of course I do, you idiot," he replied, and rubbed at his eyes.

But he still did not turn around.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Bond asked.

"We agreed," Q said simply.

Bond laid his hand on Q's shoulder and gently turned him around. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and Bond experienced a knee-jerk response of pure concern about his newly-found health declining. But even more worrisome were his eyes: red-rimmed and wet. Bond slid his hand along Q's shoulder, letting his palm rest against the side of his neck. Q leant into his touch and Bond took that as his opportunity to close that space between them, until Q was a trembling line of warmth pressed against him. Then he moved forward and kissed him. It felt wrong and sad when Q kissed back, like Q was trying to tell him _I love you_ and _goodbye_ at once.

"No," Bond said, pulling back just enough to say that word, his lips brushing over Q's. "Don't you dare."

"I'm sorry," Q murmured.

"No," Bond said again, not caring if he sounded desperate. Not caring if he was all but crushing Q against him because he could not _let him go_.

"I can't," he said. They were close enough that Bond could see his wet lashes.

"Why?"

"I just can't, James. Let me go."

"I won't."

"Please...let me go…"

No," Bond said, and held him tighter. "I've let go of everyone I ever cared for. I'm not going to do it again. I _won't_ , Q. Don't you understand?" Q looked at him, horribly, _honestly_ sad and broken, Bond kissed him, and then again, and again because Q had to _understand_ how much Bond could not bear to lose him. "You're too important… I can't, I'll…" Bond stopped, looked Q right in the eyes. "Please."

He had been poisoned and tortured and left for dead more times than he cared to count, but not once had he asked for reprieve or forgiveness. It was not until now that someone had finally made James Bond beg.

And he _begged_.

"Please, Q."

"Stop."

"Please," he said again, and kissed him. Q's inhaled breath sounded like a sob.

"No."

Q pushed away from him and turned away to grip hard at the railing with both hands, leaving Bond indescribably cold in the absence of his warmth.

"Why?" Bond asked, and he tried not to sound angry-because he was hurt, so terribly _hurt_ , not angry, not really-but he was not sure if he managed it or not.

"I told you why," Q said.

"You said you loved me."

"I do love you."

"Then what, Q? What do you _want_?"

"I want to not be in love with you."

Bond his chest tighten, like he had run too far for too long without a rest.

"Why? Am I that horrible?" he asked, and tried to grin his usual cocky grin, but could not quite accomplish it.

"No, you're wonderful. Stupidly, perfectly wonderful, even when you're being an arse. You make me so bloody _happy_ , I can't even put it into words... I couldn't ask for more."

"Then _what_ -"

"Christ, James, are you that-"

Q stopped short, falling into an icy silence. His hands clenched at the railing so tightly that his knuckles looked like they might tear through the flesh. There was something there that Bond did not understand. Q was so hard to read, but he had said that he loved him and that was enough for Bond to take a step forward.

"Q," he said, but before he could reach out, Q whipped around to face him

"No, you don't get to do this, James!" Q shouted, and Bond _flinched_. Q did not raise his voice, not like that, and it was as if everyone else knew that too, because passerby cast pointed looks in their direction. At the attention, Q quickly turned his face away from their stares and said to Bond, much more quietly: "You don't get to."

"Don't get to do what?" Bond asked.

"Don't, just, don't even-" Q's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he wasn't angry, just like Bond wasn't angry, but hurt, _scared_ , and Bond did not know what to do. Without thinking, Bond grasped him by the upper arms so that Q could not get away and would have to face him directly, but his lover averted his gaze and looked everywhere but at him.

"How am I supposed to know when you won't _tell me_?"

Without a word, Q wrenched away from him and began walking with quick, purposeful strides. _Away_ , he was walking away, out of Bond's life completely, as if they had never happened. Bond felt his heart climb into his throat and he followed.

"Q."

"Don't-"

"Q, talk to me."

"No, we have to end this. It's over, James, it's-"

"Why? Why does it have to be over?" Bond asked, grasping at the sleeve of Q's anorak to keep him from escaping. The other man stopped and ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Bond knew all too well from seeing Q aggravated and exhausted one too many times at work.

"You don't _get it_...you really don't…"

"I _don't_. So _tell me._ "

Q did not turn around, the straight line of his back forming a wall, a barrier between them. It was like it had been before, all those months ago: Q in his fortress that he had built to protect himself, closed off from everyone else, from the world, so that everyone would see him as someone strong and capable instead of young, so _young,_ and breakable. Bond ached in a familiar way-in a way he hadn't ached since Venice-to think that everything would end between them and Q would hide himself away again.

"It's so easy for you, isn't it?" Q asked: cool, professional, with his clipped consonants and vowels that he reserved solely for dressing down agents who ruined his creations and Double-Ohs who disobeyed his orders. It was just another wall between them, something cold to distance them. Bond moved his hand down the sleeve of Q's jacket, letting his fingers press gently against Q's bare wrist.

"What is?" Bond asked softly.

"Saying all this... you _never_ think about the consequences of your actions, do you?"

"Is this about work?"

"Of _course_ this is about work!" Q snapped.

"We can keep it secret if you're worried. Or we can talk to Mallory about it and make it official. I don't _care_ , Q, I just want _you_ -"

Q jerked his arm away and turned to face him, and Bond could see all his armour, all his walls breaking down, crumbling, falling apart, revealing so much _pain_ that it was almost blinding.

"You think this is about _what people are going to think?_ "

"What else would it be about?"

" _Christ,_ James. Do I have to spell it out?"

"Yes! I wish you would!"

Q pushed him hard, his palms flat against Bond's chest as he forced them apart. It didn't hurt, but Bond still felt some surprise at Q's desperation; he never spoke above an indoor voice, never _ever_ resorted to physical violence. Bond had known that from the beginning, when they sat together at the National Gallery and Q had said softly that _sometimes a trigger has to be pulled_. But that was the Q in his fortress, who had his genius and logic and emotional detachment. Before him now was the Q who had fallen, who stood exposed and terrified and in love. The Q barely holding back tears as he all but shouted:

"I'm going to have to bury you, you inconsiderate _prat!_ "

Bond stopped reaching for Q, stopped thinking, stopped _breathing_. The sound of the evening traffic and the laughter of passerby seemed loud in the wake of their silence. Q panted, raspy and hard, as if it hurt.

"Out of everyone in the entire world...out of _seven billion people_ , I had to fall in love with you. James Bond: the man who might not live to see tomorrow," Q said, smiling a self-deprecating little smile. "And how do you think it feels to be your Quartermaster? That I'm responsible every time you get hurt? That everytime I send you out there, I know you might not come back?"

"I'll always come back," Bond replied, even knowing that the words were empty. The life of a Double-Oh was a dangerous one. He could not make a promise like that and he knew it. So did Q.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

Q said it so harshly that Bond almost recoiled away from him.

"Loving you is terrifying," Q continued, his voice quiet, the edge gone. He sounded almost as calm as he did over the comms when Bond was on a particularly difficult mission. "Even more so because I know I'll undoubtedly kill you."

"Q-"

"I will. One time is all it takes. One time I'm too slow or I tell you right when I should have said left or I'm absolutely blind and _can't do anything!_ "

There were tears on Q's face, but he did not seem to notice them. Bond stared, mesmerised, unable to look away at the despairing humanity in Q's expression. And all of it, for him.

"And then I'll listen to you die," he said. "I'll listen even if you tell me not to." He turned away again, but did not make to leave. He just stood there beneath the twinkling fairy lights. His next words came out in a visible white cloud as he sighed them out on a harsh breath. "I'll bury you, if there's anything to bury. And then I'll have to go home alone and sort through your things alone and go to bed alone and be so goddamn _haunted by you_ -" Q stopped and brought his hands to his face, skewing his glasses in the process, mumbling into his hands so softly that Bond almost missed the whispered: "I love you so bloody much that it will kill me if you die."

If that was not a confession of true love, Bond did not know what was.

"You're already mourning me. I'm not even dead yet," Bond said, trying for a joke, for _anything_ , that might make Q stop crying. He hated it, every damn second of it, but Q would not let him near when he tried, and Bond could only watch as he rubbed at his face roughly to dry the wetness there. "Q, you _can't_ …" Bond stopped and waved some people by who were staring as if they wanted to come over to see if everything was all right. Not wanting to make a scene, Bond kept his voice quiet as he circled around Q to face him: "You can't think like that. It'll eat you alive."

"But I _have_ to think like that. I have to think of the _consequences_ ," Q replied, lifting his gaze from the pavement to fix on Bond. "Every time I send you out on assignment, the probability of your death increases. It's getting worse out there, James, and the worst of the worst places are where they send you. I know that the chances of you retiring are slim-to-none, and I won't ask you to give it up because I _know_ _you_ _can't_... so what else is _left_ but coming to the certain fact that you'll die in the field?" Q's expression softened into something like defeat and his shoulders sagged, as if this heavy burden had become too much to bear. "'Double Ohs don't have particularly long lifespans'."

Hearing those words recited back to him made everything all so clear to Bond, who had been stumbling around in the dark for weeks now. He had not understood the sadness that flickered in and out of Q's expression, the lingering touches after he received his equipment, as if the other man did not want him to go, but could not say it aloud. All of that because one night he had said those words so easily- so casually, carelessly-not realising how hurtful they were to Q. Q, who loved and worried constantly about him and wanted nothing more than to _not_ be in love with him because it would kill him if Bond died. Bond doubted that anyone had ever cared for him so much.

And it was selfish, so very selfish of him, but Bond could _absolutely not_ give that up, not when he finally knew what it felt like to be loved so much, so deeply, so painfully.

"So that's it? That's it then? You've got it all figured out?" Bond asked, doing his best to keep the accusation from his tone as he leant in closer. "You're just going to walk away because of something that _might_ happen?

" _Will_ happen," Q said stiffly. "I'm not being pessimistic, James, I'm being realistic."

"Do you have so little faith in me?" Bond asked.

"It's not that," Q replied softly. "It's not _you_. I don't have faith in _me_."

"I do," Bond said.

Q did not say anything, just looked at the ground between their feet as if ashamed.

"You're the best handler I've ever had. The best Quartermaster," Bond continued, with open honesty. "I trust you with my life."

"And yet, I can't promise to prolong it," Q said bitterly.

"I don't expect you to," Bond replied. "I can only hope that you'll promise to give me a fulfilling life for as long as I have one. That's all I can ask for."

"And then what? At the end, I'll still be responsible. I'll still be alone. I'll still feel _guilty_. It'll still _hurt_ ," Q grit out, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "We've let this go on too long...it's gone too far. We've got to _stop_." He shook his head. "The outcomes are unfavourable, for both of us. It's-"

"So you think, all this time, I haven't also thought of the consequences of loving _you_?" Bond interrupted, not backing down, not now, not when there was something to fight for; some _one_. It had been a long time since Vesper, but sometimes Bond could still taste the bitterness of the water, see her red dress and dark hair, feel the cold flesh of her unmoving lips. Because of that, he swore he would never love again, because losing was inevitable and it hurt and it was not _worth it_.

Until it was.

Bond was willing to put his fears aside because he just wanted to be _happy_ again, even if it was just for a moment. Even if he died, or if Q died, or if they both died, he wanted to know that his life was not meaningless: that there was something, someone, that made it all worth it.

"James-"

"No, listen. You could be kidnapped, tortured, _killed_ just because of what you are to me. You could be blown up in an attack on MI6 like Boothroyd and the rest of them. Shit, you could die in a freak R  & D accident or get hit by a car crossing the street or get electrocuted using the toaster oven."

"It's not the same," Q said. "The probability of my death is so much less than yours-

"But it can still happen. I could lose you just as easily as you could lose me."

"It's not the same," Q repeated, as he shook his head and made to turn away again. But Bond went to him, pressed him up against the railing, keeping him from escaping. Another couple passed by, staring at them curiously. He listened to their footsteps as they passed. He could smell snow in the air. Q's face was dark in the half-light of his shadow.

"Before you write me off entirely, answer one question for me," Bond said. "Let's say we end this tonight. We stop. We still work together and pretend that nothing happened… pretend that we don't have any feelings for one another…" It hurt Bond to say it, but he winced his way through the words. And it had the desired effect: Q's attention was all his. "Let's say we do all of that and then six months from now, I'm dead." The silence between them lay thick, nearly palpable. "Would it be any easier?"

"James…"

" _Would it be any easier_?"

Q stared at Bond's jacket with intense concentration.

"No," he said finally, quietly, as if admitting it aloud would change the fate of the entire universe.

"Then, please," Bond said, taking Q's face in his hands so that he could look the other man in the eyes. He brushed his thumbs over Q's cold cheeks, along the dried tracks of his previously-shed tears. "Please don't end this before it's even started."

Q lifted his hands and gripped loosely at Bond's wrists. His fingers were cold against his skin, trembling against Bond's pulse.

"I'm afraid," he admitted. Q did not look disgusted at his own admission of weakness, instead staring at Bond wide-eyed and frightened in a way that Bond had never seen. "I've never been this afraid before."

"I am, too," Bond said, pressing his forehead against Q's.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"But you're a Double-Oh."

"Well then you'd best not tell or else I'll be laughed out of the programme."

Bond's lip quirked and so did Q's, and suddenly they were two idiots standing at the middle of a bridge at some odd hour of the evening on a Wednesday, grinning like fools. Then Q visibly sobered and Bond leant in to kiss him before doubt could overtake his thoughts.

"Stop worrying," Bond said.

"I can't," Q said. "I'll always worry. I just keep thinking about-"

"Stop thinking," Bond hushed him.

"How?" Q asked. He sounded lost, looked so _young_ and vulnerable that Bond wanted nothing more than to hold onto him and protect him from every bad thing in the world. But that was impossible, so Bond did the next best thing he could think of and said:

"I love you."

Q looked at him, eyes so very green.

"Say it again."

Bond did and threaded his fingers into Q's hair.

"Again."

And he did, then kissed him until he felt the tension recede from Q's body.

"Let's go home," Q murmured. Bond's heart lifted higher at the word _home_ , because it meant something now, something much more than it did before. It was that place that he and Q shared-where there were boxes of tea in the cabinet and their shoes by the door and the bed that Bond missed so much while away, because it smelled like them, like _home_ -and they would continue to share for as long as they could. Bond turned them back around toward the park entrance, where he hailed a taxi. As they were climbing inside, Q turned to him and asked:

"So do you really think so little of me that I'd die by electrocuting myself using the toaster oven?"

Bond felt a knot in his chest loosen and he laughed and nudged Q inside before kissing him silly.

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

Logically, it was a poor choice.

Q knew this, knew the statistics pointed towards a less-than-favourable outcome for the both of them, and yet, his heart ruled over his head in the wake of Bond's words, the way he breathed out _I love you_ again and again over his skin, his lips. And Q forgot about how much he knew it would hurt because _this_ was living and Bond was worth that risk. He always had been, ever since the moment they met, because Q had been done in by his blue eyes and handsome, rugged face and the way he said _Q_ with something like respect. That was why Q allowed himself to remain emotionally compromised and let Bond press him up against the wall of the lift to kiss him until he could not feel his toes.

When the doors opened to their floor, Bond did not let them break apart, and Q found himself stumbling after him down the hallway. They somehow managed to provide accurate authentication to let them into the darkened flat despite being locked together at every conceivable point. Q had at least half the presence of mind to alarm the system as he dropped his bag and they both shed their shoes and coats with unrivaled enthusiasm. He pulled Bond with him in the direction of the bedroom, but they were too uncoordinated in the dark and so preoccupied with kissing, that they tumbled into the end table nearest the sofa. The force knocked over the lamp, which fell onto the cushions and then rolled over the edge onto the floor; Q heard the sound of the shade crumpling with the impact.

Bond stopped only long enough to say "Oops" before reclaiming Q's lips again and instead of being offended on behalf of his abused furniture, he laughed against Bond's mouth.

They finally made it to the bedroom, where Q nudged Bond back onto the mattress and then moved over him. He decided then to change the pace of things, wanting it to go a bit slower, to take in everything that had just happened and process what that meant for him, for them, for the future. Bond must have understood, because his mouth became a little less insistent, his hands a tad more gentle in their grip on his hips, and Q loved him very much for knowing without a single word spoken between them. After some time-seconds, minutes, hours?-Q drew back, his lips kiss-swollen and warm. He regarded Bond beneath him, his eyes so very blue, even in the dark. They watched him in that way that sometimes made Q feel uncomfortable, but not now, because Q finally understood _why_ Bond looked at him like that, and it made him feel so impossibly loved that he felt like laughing or crying or both. But Q did neither and instead, removed his glasses. He set them on the bedside table and then leant back over Bond, pulling the man's shirt up over his head. Once free of his arms, Q dropped it over the side of the bed and moved in to kiss Bond again.

They went about it unhurriedly, sharply in contrast to how things usually went. Most of the time they were still thrumming with adrenalin after an assignment or heady with relief after too much time apart. The sex was always about establishing the physical presence of one another: that they were both still alive and lived to see another day. This was something else: something quiet and intimate that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the fact that, despite all odds, they were in love with one another.

 _Love_.

Q had had few relationships in the past. They were messy, dysfunctional, not at all worth the effort at times. That was why Q always had engaged with one foot planted firmly on the ground. He could never let himself go entirely. That would have been too dangerous; there was too much risk in loving without limits. But then Bond had barged into his life and taken over everything, until Q could not breathe without thinking about him or being reminded of him in some way. It was as if he had been hollow without knowing it and everything about Bond had come in and filled all those empty spaces so perfectly that Q felt full of him. _Complete_. Bond drove him mad, yes, and sometimes Q wanted to scream and yell and throw things at him (and sometimes he did), but there was no one who had ever reached him that deeply before; no one had ever made him care enough to get angry or sad or happy because of something they did or did not do. And Bond did that to him all the time, without realising it, like remembering how he took his tea or knowing just how to kiss him when he had a too-long day.

There was nothing but unadulterated trust in the way Bond looked at him, held him, slept beside him. And then Bond had said he loved him and Q could barely breathe, because he finally _understood_. Love was all about trusting another person to the fullest extent. And giving that away meant that love could be fulfilling and wonderful, aggravating and painful. Loving Bond might leave a hole in his heart, a hole so big that it might kill him one day, but there were some wounds that were worth it.

And Bond was worth it.

Q knew it was now turn to share, to give, to trust, as Bond had done for him. It was time to finally lift both feet off the ground and _fall_.

"Q?" Bond said, and touched his cheek. Q could not be sure when he had stopped kissing Bond in favour of simply looking at him. They were close enough that Q could make out some distinguishing features: Bond's full lips and handsome jaw and those _eyes_. This man was his, even if it was just for right now, and Q loved him more than anything else in the world. He whispered it then-the name he had been born with, the name from so very, very long ago-softly, quietly into the dark, just at the space where Bond's shoulder and neck joined, where he always felt safe and loved. The moment Q said it, he knew it could not be undone, but knew that it would be all right.

Q shifted as Bond sat up from his reclined position, settling back onto the other man's lap. Then both of Bond's broad hands were cupping his jaw, the wide sweep his thumbs moving over Q's cheeks. Q did not feel nervous in the hold, even as Bond regarded him silently. Then Bond kissed him gently, like everything they were doing and about to do was suddenly different because of that small, insignificant piece of information. Only Q knew it was not insignificant to Bond, who loved his own name, his own identity, so much that he could not imagine wanting to be someone else. But Q was different. He had spent his entire life trying to forget who he was and where he came from. That name was not who Q was, not now, because 'Q' was everything he had always wanted to be and had finally become.

But still, there was something freeing about giving that up, that part of himself to Bond, to James. James, who slowly removed Q's cardigan and thermal, then gently manoeuvred him down to lie back against the duvet, where he murmured that name against his lips, his neck, his chest, down over the ridges of his ribs and down the slope of his stomach. Q might have hated the name, but he did love the way James said it, almost as much as the tender way the man laid hands on him.

"I like Q better," Q said, when James moved back up to kiss him again.

"I like them both," James replied, nipping playfully at Q's bottom lip. Q slid his arms up over James' shoulders, then let his hands drop to caress down his spine. He tipped his head back as James mouthed his way along his jaw to his throat, groaning as his lover applied teeth and tongue to his skin. Even though he knew it would leave marks, Q did not push him away. Let all of his department stare and wonder, Q did not care, not when it felt so _good_. He canted his hips, seeking contact, but the other man did not give it to him. James seemed more than content to travel down his body slowly, leaving love bruises in his wake from Q's throat all the way down to the curve of his hip. By the time he had reached that area, Q was so hard that it hurt.

"James," he breathed, as his lover made slow work removing his belt and jeans. He tipped his head back as James mouthed his way down along his inner thigh, his lips hot and teasing and soft. And then he nipped and bit and sucked at the tender flesh until Q was all but keening for it, for more of his touch, for more of _anything_ as long as he did not _stop_. " _James_ ," he said again, the name punctuated by an almost broken gasp when James hooked his fingers at the waistband of his pants and pulled them down.

" _Christ_ do you know what your voice does to me?" James growled, and Q gripped at his shoulders, digging his nails in hard when he pointedly did not touch him where he wanted to be touched. "Easy now," James said, moving up Q's body to kiss his protests away. Their hips touched and Q whined into James' mouth. He was desperate in a way that he had not felt before: desperate to be as close to James as physically possible. He wanted to connect with him in the most intimate way, needed it to calm the song of fire in his blood that James had set alight with three simple words _I love you_. Q scraped his fingers down his back and then round his waist, where he began frantically unbuckling his lover's belt.

"Easy," James said again and his hands stopped Q's from pulling at his flies.

"Want you," Q gasped against his flesh.

"We've got all the time in the world," James replied.

"But I want you now," Q said, not caring in the slightest if he sounded spoilt.

James laughed.

"So demanding," he said fondly, and then sucked Q's tongue into his mouth before he could reply.

It felt like eternity before James was naked and divest of the gun on his ankle. Even longer than eternity before James finally touched him, began working him open with the gentleness and skill of someone who knew Q's body intimately. He held Q in his arms throughout, as if he, too, felt that desire, that _need_ , to be as impossibly close as two people could be. And then James filled him and made love to him like never before. Or perhaps it was just like all the times before, but now they were free from all the constraints, all the self-imposed rules and barriers. And while they were not free from the fear of uncertainty-of the future, of what the outcome of all of this would be-it was enough right now, to just _be_ , and they took what they could get.

Q was not a romantic, but those thoughts and James' arms around him and the quiet, ragged, honest _I love you, God, I fucking love you_ in his ear as they moved together was as close to romance as Q thought possible.

After, they managed a hasty cleanup on the top sheet and then lay boneless, satiated atop one another beneath the crumpled duvet. Q rested his cheek against James' chest and tried to count the beats of his heart-perhaps similarly to how young children would count sheep in order to fall asleep-but he could not manage it, unsure if what he heard was James' heartbeat or his own. Either way, it was wonderful, because both of them were there and warm and breathing and _alive_. It meant everything when those simple facts were not guaranteed from day-to-day. That made Q think about what James had said in the park, with an expression so open and raw that it made him think of a wound, a wound that only bled and wouldn't clot:

 _Would it be any easier_?

The way James looked at him was something that Q would never forget. It was that little push he had needed to let go of his inhibitions, his fears, his uncertainties, and it had made all the difference. It had been the difference between Q going home alone and James coming back with him.

"I would regret it."

Q blamed the afterglow: the feeling of a warm, perfect body against him and the knowledge that the reciprocal thing between them meant something more. The sentimental thoughts had loosened his tongue, and Q wanted to take it back, but James beat him before he could even open his mouth

"Regret what?"

Q paused to consider his words because this was not his area, not by a long shot, but James had waded into unknown waters for him, and Q thought that the least he could do would be to do the same.

"...losing those last six months," Q replied, and closed his eyes. "Even more than losing you on a mission."

James' fingers strayed into his hair, began threading through it idly.

"Hmm...why's that?"

"You know why."

"I do, I just want to hear you say it."

"Prat."

"Brat."

Q bit his collarbone affectionately.

"Tell me," he said, and Q could hear the grin in his voice.

"You're unbearable."

"I think you mean irresistible."

"Perhaps I meant incorrigible?"

James chuckled and kissed the top of his head. Q immediately gave in, because he loved when he did that.

"Tell me," he said again, resuming the action with his fingers. It lulled Q back into his prior contented state.

"Because you'd be mine until the very end," Q replied, a blush threatening his cheeks, but he continued anyway. If James-I-Don't-Do-Feelings-Bond could do it, he could too: all this emotion business. "I'd rather have you while I can than not at all."

"Why, Q, you never told me you were a romantic," James said, but with the deepest fondness Q had ever heard from him.

"Because I'm not. And if you insinuate such a thing to anyone, I will end you," Q promised.

"I love you, too," James said cheekily, laughing as Q attempted to smother him with a pillow. It was only after, when they settled down to sleep, that Q realised he had never said it back to James. He tried to say it in the dark _I love you_ but the words would not come, even long after James' breaths had evened and the room fell dark and silent with the passing of midnight. It did not mean that he loved James any less. He had given James his heart and his name and his trust, so certainly that had to be enough.

Three little words were nothing in comparison.

That was what Q told himself as he did not sleep.

* * *

Q must have eventually nodded off, because he woke sometime in the grey morning hours to the familiar ping of his mobile alert. It sounded far away, but Q would know it anywhere, having trained himself to identify it in wake or sleep in case MI6 rang. The moment he sat up, Bond's arm pulled tighter across his waist.

"Ignore it," Bond mumbled into his pillow.

"Can't," Q said, putting on his glasses. Through the gap in their curtains, he saw light snow falling beyond the window. His bedside clock read 7:27. Q leant over and pressed a kiss to Bond's mussed up hair. "Let me up." Bond secured his grip and turned his head toward Q with a sleepy squint.

"No," he said

"I'll be right back," Q promised.

"Stay," he said, and Q kissed the bridge of his nose.

"I'll be right back," he said again, and Bond reluctantly released him. Q slid out of bed and hurriedly made a grab for Bond's dressing gown to keep the morning chill at bay. His mobile vibrated more insistently from the living room, causing Q to abandon his search for socks to make a dash from the bedroom. He found the device in the front pocket of his bag, which he had dropped carelessly in the foyer the previous night. The number on the screen said _Withheld_ , but Q had a feeling he knew exactly who it was.

"This is Q."

"Good morning, sunshine."

"I do hope that this is not a social call," Q said dryly, and Moneypenny laughed, light as a bell on the other end.

"Of course not," she replied, in a way that indicated, yes, it was indeed a social call.

"Couldn't you call at a later hour?" Q asked, a touch irritated that Moneypenny would contact him so early, especially after what would be his first time home in three days in order to rest.

"The sun is already up, sweetheart."

"It's London. There is no sun."

"Someone's a bit crabby. Did I interrupt something?" she asked, sounding sly.

"Yes, my well-deserved rest. In case you've forgotten, Eve, I hadn't slept more than a few hours in the past few days."

"Ah, and here you had me thinking that maybe Bond kept you up past your bedtime."

Q refused to acknowledge the severe blush that crept up the back of his neck.

"Is there a purpose to this call or may I ring off and go back to bed?" he asked primly.

"How was last night?" she inquired. Well-intentioned, surely, but nosy as ever. Q let out an aggravated breath, running his hand over his face tiredly. Either he talked now or Eve would keep calling and if he did not answer, she would come over herself to meddle. Or send a team of highly specialised agents to extract him so that she could question him at Six. _Might as well get it over with_ , he supposed.

"Fine," he conceded.

"You left with Bond."

"I did."

"Did he take you to dinner?" she asked.

"Don't waste my time asking questions to which you already know the answer," Q replied. He knew that she was behind it, because Eve was the only one who knew about that restaurant and how much Q enjoyed it. Bond never would have chosen such a place on his own.

"Touche. How did it go?"

"Fine."

"Did anything happen?"

"We had dinner."

"And?"

"We shagged."

"That's all?"

She sounded disappointed.

"That's all," Q affirmed, moving into the kitchen.

Silence from Eve's end as he began preparing a kettle.

"You're a terrible liar," she finally said.

"Am I?" he asked dryly, placing the kettle on the hob.

"Yes. You talked, didn't you?"

"Of course we talked. It would have been awkward if we didn't."

"Oh my god if you were in front of me, I would be _shaking you!_ "

"I suppose it's a good thing I'm not in front of you."

"You're infuriating sometimes," Eve grumbled.

"I take it that means you find me endearing?" Q replied, as he pulled down two mugs from the cabinet.

"Q…"

"Eve."

"Tell me. Did you talk? You know, actually _talk_?"

"Yes, we did," Q sighed, digging around in the cabinet in search of the coffee grounds.

" _And_?" Eve asked, sounding terribly like a fifteen-year old girl with a swooning crush on a member of a boy band.

"And that is specifically our business and not yours," Q replied easily.

"Did he tell you he loved you?" she asked.

"Eve-"

"Did you tell him you loved him?"

"Eve-"

"Please tell me you recorded it!"

"Eve-"

"Or that the CCTV picked it up somewhere?"

"It's too early for this," Q said, mostly to himself, as he put the appropriate amount of coffee grounds into the filter.

"You're going to have to tell me everything," Eve told him.

"I meant it when I said it was _our business_ ," Q said firmly. He was not going to change his mind on that, at least not quite yet. The territory was still too new and Q was not sure how to navigate this new relationship, let alone explain it someone else.

"C'mon, Q," Moneypenny chided.

"I'm not discussing this any further," Q said, this time with clear finality.

"Such a spoilsport," she replied, and he could almost see her pouting, like a grown five year-old.

"Oh, but I am glad that you called. Please send word to Mallory that I'll not be in today-"

" _Knew it-_ -"

"-but in the event of an emergency, anyone can reach me on my mobile. Though please make note that no one is to bother me for anything less than imminent world destruction."

" _Imminent world destruction_ ," Eve repeated, like she was actually taking notes and grinning her way through it. "I can only hazard a guess as to what you'll be up to today."

"I intend to be thoroughly shagged and then spend the rest of my day watching Netflix," Q said seriously.

"See you tomorrow, then?" she replied cheerfully.

"Perhaps," Q said, glancing toward the bedroom. Staying in for a few days sounded much more appealing. And he could use a holiday.

"Naughty boy," Eve said, as if reading his mind.

"Please don't ever say those words to me again," he responded dryly, and she laughed as she bid her farewell.

Q rang off with her and dropped his mobile onto the counter carelessly, having no desire to do anything even remotely related to work. He went quietly into the bathroom to use the toilet, brush his teeth, and wash up a bit, paying special attention to the parts of him that remained slightly sticky from the night before. Then Q returned to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea for himself and a morning coffee for Bond, and carried both steaming mugs into the bedroom. Bond still lay in bed, right down the middle of the mattress with his arm draped possessively over Q's pillow. It was always a rare, pleasant sight to see Bond in such a relaxed state. Usually, Bond rose before Q, but it was only recently that he began to remain in bed with Q until he woke. Before, Q would wake alone, only to find that Bond had either already left or that he had stayed, but gotten completely dressed as if prepared to leave. Q supposed that years in the Navy had gotten Bond used to the idea of waking early and then his time in the field had taught him to never let his guard down, never be caught in such a vulnerable state: naked and only half-awake. It provided Bond with control, in a way, over himself and the situation, to always be ready and prepared. The fact that he had not gotten up after Q had risen proved that the other man trusted him implicitly. The fact that it appeared he had gone back to sleep meant even more. Was that Bond's sort of _love_?

Smiling, Q set his glasses and the cups on Bond's night table, shrugged out of the oversized housecoat, and crawled, naked, back into bed on Bond's side. Once beneath the blankets, Q moved closer to Bond, twining their legs together as he pressed against Bond's bare back for warmth.

"You're cold," Bond said, as Q brushed the tip of his nose along the ridge of his shoulder blade.

"It's freezing in here," Q replied, sliding an arm round Bond's waist to draw them closer. He yawned, resting his forehead at the base of Bond's spine.

"It's snowing," Bond said, sounding sleepy.

"Mhmm…" Q replied, snuggling up further beneath the blanket as he burrowed in closely to Bond. He closed his eyes, completely content in the quiet of the flat, with Bond solid and present and permanent beside him. At that moment, he could have easily fallen back asleep, but he had made coffee and tea for them and both would get cold. "I made coffee."

"Mmm," was Bond's response, but he made no effort to move. Q did not either, tea be damned. They lay there for some time in the quiet morning, listening to the soft sound of traffic outside their window. Q counted Bond's breaths, the gentle ticking of his Breitling, and Q thought that perhaps, if he strained his ears, he might be able to hear the sound of snow falling on the roof. It was so peaceful that Q wanted to remain inside the moment perpetually, frozen in a moment of time with nothing but their bodies and breath and heartbeats.

"Was that Eve?" Bond asked.

"Yes," Q answered.

"What'd she want?" Bond inquired, his speech still a bit slow as he came into wakefulness.

"The usual," Q replied carelessly, yawning.

"She doesn't give up, does she?"

"No. I've noticed that seems to be a common personality trait for field agents."

Bond threaded their fingers together and then brought their joined hands to his mouth, where he kissed Q's knuckles with sleep-warm lips. His bit of morning stubble tickled at Q's skin.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Bond replied.

"Well it's not always a good thing," Q replied and Bond chuckled as he turned over onto his back. Q adjusted to the new position, finding a comfortable place beside him that did not require resting his weight on Bond's shoulder, atop his old gunshot wound. Out of all of the scars, Q knew that one still hurt from time to time, most likely from the physical and chemical makeup of the bullet Patrice used on Bond back in Istanbul. Q frowned as he tenderly traced his fingertips over the puckered bit of skin, thinking that if the assassin had not fallen to his death in Shanghai, Q might have arranged for another unpleasant accident to befall him. The thought should have repulsed him-Q was not a violent person, despite the majority of his job description-but it did not. Q had no qualms hurting someone, _destroying_ someone, who tried to take this man away from him.

"What are you thinking about?" Bond asked.

"Hm?"

Q traced his fingers outward to idly smooth patterns on Bond's chest. So close to him, Q could see gooseflesh rise up on his skin, even without the aid of his glasses.

"You're thinking so hard I can almost hear it."

"It's nothing."

"Q," he said, hand in Q's hair, petting at the strands in a way that made Q smile unconsciously.

"Coffee's getting cold," Q murmured, kissing at Bond's pectoral. His lover said nothing in reply, simply turned over onto his side before enveloping Q in his arms. Automatically, Q tucked himself against him, breathing in Bond's scent that had gone musky with sweat and sex from the previous night. Q's cock lay trapped between their bodies, soft, but slowly gaining some interest at their proximity.

"If you think that much about coffee, I worry about you," Bond said, breath stirring Q's hair.

"I wasn't thinking about coffee," Q admitted.

"Obviously."

Bond pet him some more and Q hummed happily.

"You're not going to change your mind."

Q did not have to ask what about. It was perfectly clear. And it was also his last chance to back away, to insist that last night everything-all the pretty words and promises-had gone to his head. He could say that he had made a mistake and that he wanted to just go back to what they had. He could say that he did not want to be involved with all this relationship business. He could provide justification for this decision: love was too complicated, too illogical, too messy, and Bond would inevitably die and leave Q alone. He could defend that the decision would protect both of them: there would be no way for Bond to bleed if he did not have a heart, a weakness; there would be no way for Q to have a broken heart if he did not give it away. So now was the time he could change his mind-protect himself from loving and losing and suffering because of the man next to him-but he only had this moment. This was his only chance.

And there was no choice in it.

"No."

Q breathed out the word, the word that would set everything in stone, that would solidify the foundation of whatever it was they had already started building. He said it, even knowing what the outcome would inevitably be, and it all suddenly made sense: all those stupid decisions and promises people made when they were in love. But that was what love was. It did not make sense, it did not quantify, but there was something sort of beautiful about it: the unknown, the unpredictable. Even if there existed the possibility of tears and suffering and loneliness, there also existed the reality of mornings like this, where he felt whole and content and so very, very loved. And if Q could wake up like this everyday, even if it was only for a short while, he knew it was worth it.

"No?" Bond repeated.

"You're stuck with me, I'm afraid," Q said, and Bond huffed out a laugh that stirred his hair. The reaction was miniscule, but Q felt it: the way Bond's body relaxed at the confirmation.

"Good, because I wouldn't let you," Bond said.

"My own stubborn Double-Oh," Q mused.

"My dear Quartermaster," Bond replied, and tilted Q's chin to kiss him. He tasted slightly bitter from sleep, but Q did not mind, and rolled over on top of Bond to find a better angle. Warm palms moved down his sides, raising the fine hairs on Q's extremities. God, how Q loved it: loved the way Bond touched him like he was something worthy of worship, like he was the most gorgeous, precious thing Bond had ever possessed. Q pressed his hips down against Bond's as he released his lips in favour of kissing his way along that hard, strong jaw. _You're going to hurt me,_ Q thought, as he licked and then bit at Bond's pulse, relishing in the way that he shuddered. _But I think that's okay. Because I get to love you, at least for a little while, and that's better than not at all._

"What are you thinking about now?" Bond asked.

"Is it not obvious?" Q asked, sliding his hardening prick against Bond's. His lover grunted beneath him, but did not make to increase the friction between them.

"Q…"

"I'm thinking about how much I want to do this," Q said, and laved at Bond's nipple. "And this." He bit gently at the dusky peak, and Bond's hips jerked at the sensation. "And this…" Q moved down Bond's body: licking, kissing, marking him, as Bond had done to him the previous night. It felt good to take his time, though Q knew firsthand that it was the most pleasant sort of torture and that Bond would be wanting it desperately by the time he reached below the navel. So it was surprising that when Q took him in hand, Bond still maintained possession of his mental faculties enough to ask:

"But what are you really thinking about?"

Q looked up at him, too far away to see his face without his glasses. Not releasing him, Q readjusted his position so that he was closer, close enough to see the thin but piercing ring of blue around Bond's blown pupils. It was always so satisfying to know he could bring Bond such pleasure; something very selfish in him never wanted anyone else to have the opportunity to do the same again. _Mine_ he thought, and kissed him until it seemed there was no more oxygen left in the room.

When they parted, they were gasping, and it was intoxicating.

"I'm thinking about what I would do for you," Q answered, stroking him slowly with an open hand, base to tip. Despite what they were doing, Q's words had nothing to do with sex, and Bond knew it, he could tell, by the gentle hitch to his breath.

"What would you do for me?" Bond asked, and his voice came out low and rough in a way that sent want through Q's entire body.

"I would topple regimes for you," Q said, keeping up the steady motion with his hand. "Overturn governments," he continued, twisting his wrist, and Bond's lashes fluttered slightly, but he did not close his eyes, his gaze riveted on Q, unblinking. "I would lie and cheat and steal," he murmured against Bond's mouth, moving his hand to match his partner's ragged breaths, "and start wars across every continent." Bond was already close-whether from the early morning stimulus or Q's words-and Q could feel it, just as he could the near-bruising pressure of Bond's fingers digging into his hips. His words were honest and true and perhaps not _I love you_ but as close as they came. He held Bond's gaze and said, "I would kill a man with my bare hands for you" and squeezed just so. Bond came with a startled gasp, as if he had not expected to finish so suddenly and so strongly. His spend filled the space between them, slick and hot against Q's cock and stomach, reminding him of the ache in his own belly. But this had all been for Bond, who panted and trembled in the aftershock of his orgasm, in the wake of the _I love you_ that had punctuated every word Q had said.

"Q…" Bond breathed.

"Hmm?" was Q's reply, as he licked at his wet fingers. Bond watched him through half-lidded eyes. Though he was post-coital, there still lingered an intensity there that brought Q's attention back to his own arousal, which lay hard and flat between them.

"You would," Bond said, not asked, and it was very easy to kiss him because of it.

"I would," Q said, promised.

"You're terrifying," Bond replied.

"Says the man with the license to kill," Q retorted and Bond grinned at him.

"Says the man who can do more damage in his pyjamas before his first cup of Earl Grey than I could do a year in the field."

"You like it."

Bond kissed him.

"I love it."

* * *

It was strange how very little changed.

Q did not know what he had expected, but he had always presumed that falling in love with someone changed everything: the way a person worked, acted, breathed. But Q did not see any drastic differences. He still performed exceptionally at work (and that was no longer up for debate, as it seemed allowing R to take over the branch for the few weeks during his recovery had endeared him to his subordinates, who most likely suffered greatly under her rule and saw him as a much less sinister leader) and still acted professionally (or as professionally as he could with Bond on the other end of the comms, making all kinds of inappropriate jokes that were definitely not suitable for the work environment, but so long as he wasn't blowing up Paris, Q figured he could let it slide) and still breathed constant worry and concern over Bond when he was away (a close shave with a knife, far, far too close to James' chest had made Q's heart practically seize with fear, and if he reverently kissed the line of scar tissue every night since the stitches came out, well, no one had to know) so nothing had really changed.

(Not really.)

Christmas came and went, unmentioned, uncelebrated (Q even managed to diplomatically worm his way out of attending the MI6 holiday party, much to Eve's verbal disappointment, which persisted for days after the gathering via SMS and email messages), and uneventful. Bond spent the majority of it in a hotel room on the other side of the world, waiting for Q's go ahead to move in on the target. They celebrated in their own way, when Bond returned the night before New Year's Eve with three bruised ribs and a late Christmas present for Q (a new electric kettle for his office, which Q had been meaning to purchase on his own, but had never found the time to do so) tucked under his arm. The two of them went home and immediately fell asleep for the first time in days and did not wake up until 2013. Q did not mind it, did not feel as if he had missed out, because it was enough to have Bond back home, back in their bed, back _safely_.

When the returned to the office, Bond was immediately put on leave after clocking too many hours on missions without having any mandatory downtime in between. He spent the first day of it officially moving into Q's flat while he was at work. When Q arrived home, he saw only three new things that signified this major change: Bond's liquor cabinet had been shoved in the corner nearest the window in the sitting room, a few cardboard boxes of books and records sat stacked next to the already-overflowing shelves, and an ugly old bulldog painted with the Union Jack now perched on the mantle.

Q didn't ask about the bulldog-he had a feeling he knew whose it was, by the way Bond sometimes glanced at it when he thought Q would not notice-and instead occupied himself by helping Bond unpack his collection of paperbacks and vinyl.

"You would have a vinyl collection," Q said, flipping through the well-kept albums with polite interest. Bond had so little in the way of material possessions; looking through them was almost like insight to another part of the man that Q was only just beginning to know.

"I'm surprised you even know what these are," Bond replied.

"Don't talk like that. You make it sound like you're a cradle robber," Q answered. Bond laughed and spent the rest of the night alphabetising his collection and setting up the record player while Q made space for his things on one of the shelves. Once Bond had fitted the needle correctly, he selected an album and put it on. Q did not know much about music, but he found the smooth jazz appealing in a way. Maybe it was the music and the sight of James Bond barefoot and in his sweatpants and smiling that made Q agree to dance with him.

(But only maybe.)

January slipped by, then February-Q warning Bond away from Valentine's Day because _so help him_ -and soon it was March. By the end of the month, there was a lull in almost everything. MI6 was _quiet_ ; missions were scarce because the terrorists and every other group on the radar had seemingly gone to ground. Even the hackers were inactive, which made Q-Branch boring and almost as still as a tomb. On top of that, the skies had been grey for weeks and it would not stop sleeting in London. That was the final push to make Q take a well-deserved week-long holiday just so he did not have to go out in it, which was fine with him, because he and Bond could spend all day in their pyjamas.

(Or out of them, depending on the circumstances.)

One evening, Q lay down in bed beside Bond, who sat propped against the headboard, immersed in a book. Usually Q would join him in reading, or some on-the-side-for-fun hacking on his personal laptop, but that night, he did not. He had the indescribable need to just be present and listen to the rain against the window and watch Bond in the soft light from the bedside lamp. He slid beneath the duvet and lay there facing Bond, watching as he turned the pages slowly, absorbed in whatever novel he had picked up at the half-price store down the street. The room smelled of ink and old paper and rain, beneath it the scent of them on the sheets: their shampoo and soap and aftershave and the just-barely-there hint of sweat and sex from that morning. It was their room, something they had made together, comprised of all their things and their words-all the loving and kind and angry and bitter words-and it was truly a _home_ in every sense.

"Q," Bond said, as he began idly moving his fingers through Q's hair.

"Hmm?"

"You're doing it again."

"What's that?"

Bond stopped the motion with his hand for just a moment to put a bookmark in between two pages. Then he set the paperback down on his bedside cabinet and continued on as he had been before; Q immediately curled closer to him.

"You know, when you start thinking so loud I can almost hear it," he said.

"What am I thinking about then?" Q asked, and Bond chuckled.

"I said _almost_ hear it."

Q smiled against Bond's side, feeling his eyes grow heavy the longer his lover petted him. He loved it, the moments like this, when it felt like only the two of them existed in the entire world. It was nothing but them in their bed, in their room, in their flat, listening to the rain and breathing in the same air. And it was perfect.

"I love you," Q said, honestly and unafraid. He did not have to fight for the words or struggle internally over their consequences. He just knew that he loved Bond, he always had, but never had the courage to say it aloud. It seemed foolish to be so hesitant to speak them, especially when Q had to face the straight line of Bond's back, walking out the door and into danger time after time. He could leave and not come back, never knowing, or at least, never hearing Q say it, not even once. "I love you," Q said again, just to say it twice, to know that he could, and that it still meant just as much as the first time.

Bond smile, turned his chin up, and kissed him.

"I know."

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end~
> 
> Please let me know what you think / if you find any errors. I have proofed this a thousand and one times (and added and removed about thirty different scenes, including an epilogue with Eve) but I still feel unhappy with it, so I appreciate any and all feedback~! (Also searching for a BETA reader for my two upcoming projects. Anyone willing to take a look at a few things...?)
> 
> If you'd like to, follow me on Tumblr (dhampir72), because that would be cool if you did. A warning, though: I mostly post pictures of cats and Ben Whishaw.
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all your nice comments/favourites/follows xx


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